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THE    CHOUANS. 


MULE.  DE  VERNEUIL  AND  THE   MARQUIS. 


THE    CHOUANS. 


BY 

H.    DE     BALZAC. 


XEWLY  TRAXSLATED    7ATO    ENGLISH   BY    GEORGE   SALVTSBURY. 


I  LLUSTRATED. 


CHICAGO  AND  NEW  YORK: 
RAND,  MCNALLY  &  COMPANY,  PUBLISHERS. 

1891  . 


y\  PUBLISHERS,  fy 


THE  CHOUANS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    AMBUSH. 

IN  the  early  days  of  the  Year  Eight,  at  the  beginning 
of  Vendemiaire,  or,  to  adopt  the  present  calendar, 
towards  the  end  of  September,  1799,  some  hundred 
peasants  and  a  pretty  large  number  of  townsmen,  who 
had  left  Fougeres  in  the  morning  for  Mayenne,  were 
climbing  the  Pilgrim  Hill,  which  lies  nearly  half-way 
between  Fougeres  and  Ernee,  a  little  town  used  by  trav- 
elers as  a  half-way  house.  The  detachment,  divided 
into  groups  of  unequal  strength,  presented  a  collection 
of  costumes  so  odd,  and  included  persons  belonging  to 
places  and  professions  so  different,  that  it  may  not  be 
useless  to  describe  their  outward  characteristics,  in  order 
to  lend  this  history  the  lively  coloring  so  much  prized 
nowadays,  notwithstanding  that,  as  some  critics  say,  it 
interferes  with  the  portrayal  of  sentiments. 

Some  (and  the  greater  part)  of  the  peasants  went  bare- 
foot, with  no  garments  but  a  large  goatskin  which  cov- 
ered them  from  neck  to  knee,  and  breeches  of  white 
linen  of  very  coarse  texture,  woven  of  yarn  so  rough  as  to 
show  the  rudeness  of  the  country  manufacture.  The 
straight  locks  of  their  long  hair  mingled  so  regularly 
with  the  goatskin  and  hid  their  downcast  faces  so  com- 

5 


THE    CHOUANS. 

pletely,  that  the  goatskin  itself  might  have  been  easily 
mistaken  for  their  own,  and  the  poor  fellows  might,  at 
first  sight,  have  been  confounded  with  the  animals  whose 
spoils  served  to  clothe  them.  But  before  long  the  spec- 
tator would  have  seen  their  eyes  flashing  through  this 
mat  of  hair,  like  dew-drops  in  thick  herbage;  and  their 
glances,  while  showing  human  intelligence,  .were  better 
fitted  to  cause  alarm  than  pleasure.  On  their  heads  they 
wore  dirty  bonnets  of  red  wool,  like  the  Phrygian  cap 
which  the  Republic  then  affected  as  an  emblem  of  liberty. 
Every  man  had  on  his  shoulder  a  stout  cudgel  of  knotty 
oak,  from  which  there  hung  a  long  but  slenderly  filled 
wallet  of  linen.  Some  had,  in  addition  to  the  bonnet,  a 
hat  of  coarse  felt,  with  wide  brim,  and  adorned  with 
a  parti-colored  woolen  fillet  surrounding  the  crown. 
Others,  entirely  dressed  in  the  same  linen  or  canvas  of 
which  the  breeches  and  wallets  of  the  first  party  were 
composed,  showed  scarcely  anything  in  their  costume  cor- 
responding to  modern  civilization.  Their  long  hair  fell 
on  the  collar  of  a  round  jacket  with  little  square  side- 
pockets — a  jacket  coming  down  no  lower  than  the  hips,  and 
forming  the  distinctive  garb  of  the  peasant  of  the  West. 
Under  the  jacket,  which  was  open,  there  could  be  seen  a 
waistcoat  of  the  same  material,  with  large  buttons. 
Some  of  them  walked  in  sabots,  while  others,  out  of 
thrift,  carried  their  shoes  in  their  hands.  This  costume, 
soiled  with  long  wear,  grimed  with  sweat  and  dust,  and 
less  strikingly  peculiar  than  that  first  described,  had, 
from  the  point  of  view  of  history,  the  advantage  of  serv- 
ing as  a  transition  to  the  almost  costly  array  of  some  few 
who,  scattered  here  and  there  amid  the  troop,  shone  like 
flowers.  Indeed,  their  blue  linen  breeches,  their  red  or 
yellow  waistcoats  ornamented  with  two  parallel  rows  of 
copper  buttons,  and  shaped  like  square-cut  cuirasses, 


THE   AMBUSH.  7 

contrasted  as  sharply  with  the  white  coats  and  the  goat- 
skins of  their  companions,  as  corn-flowers  and  poppies  do 
with  a  field  of  wheat.  Some  were  shod  with  the  sabots 
which  the  Breton  peasants  know  how  to  make  for  their 
own  use.  But  the  great  majority  had  large  hobnailed 
shoes  and  coats  of  very  coarse  cloth,  cut  in  that  old 
French  style  which  is  still  religiously  observed  by  the 
peasantry.  Their  shirt-collars  were  fastened  by  silver 
buttons  in  the  shape  of  hearts  or  anchors,  and  their  wal- 
lets seemed  much  better  stocked  than  those  of  their  com- 
panions, not  to  mention  that  some  finished  off  their  trav- 
eling dress  with  a  flask  (doubtless  filled  with  brandy) 
which  hung  by  a  string  to  their  necks.  Among  these 
semi-savages  there  appeared  some  townsfolk,  as  if  to  mark 
the  limit  of  civilization  in  these  districts.  In  round  or 
flat  hats,  and  some  of  them  in  caps,  with  top-boots  or 
shoes  surmounted  by  gaiters,  their  costumes  were  as 
remarkably  different,  the  one  from  the  other,  as  those  of 
the  peasants.  Some  half-score  wore  the  Republican 
jacket  known  as  a  carmagnole;  others,  no  doubt  well- 
to-do  artisans,  were  clad  in  complete  suits  of  cloth  of  a 
uniform  color.  The  greatest  dandies  were  distinguished 
by  frocks  or  riding-coats  in  green  or  blue  cloth  more  or 
less  worn.  These  persons  of  distinction  wore  boots  of 
every  shape,  and  swished  stout  canes  about  with  the  air 
of  those  who  make  the  best  of  "Fortune  their  foe." 
Some  heads  carefully  powdered,  some  queues  twisted 
smartly  enough,  indicated  the  rudimentary  care  of  per- 
sonal appearance  which  a  beginning  of  fortune  or  of  edu- 
cation sometimes  inspires.  A  looker-on  at  this  group  of 
men,  associated  by  chance  and,  as  it  were,  each  astonished 
at  finding  himself  with  the  others,  might  have  thought 
them  the  inhabitants  of  a  town  driven  pell-mell  from 
their  homes  by  a  conflagration.  But  time  and  place  gave 


8  THE  CHOUANS. 

quite  a  different  interest  to  the  crowd.  An  observer 
experienced  in  the  civil  discord  which  then  agitated 
France  would  have  had  no  difficulty  in  distinguishing 
the  small  number  of  citizens  on  whom  the  Republic 
could  count  in  this  assembly,  composed,  as  it  was,  almost 
entirely  of  men  who  four  years  before  had  been  in  open 
war  against  her.  One  last  and  striking  trait  gave  an 
infallible  indication  of  the  discordant  sympathies  of  the 
gathering.  Only  the  Republicans  showed  any  sort  of 
alacrity  in  their  march.  For  the  other  members  of  the 
troop,  though  the  disparity  of  their  costume  was  notice- 
able enough,  their  faces  and  their,  bearing  exhibited  the 
monotonous  air  of  misfortune.  Townsmen  and  peasants 
alike,  melancholy  marked  them  all  deeply  for  her  own; 
their  very  silence  had  a  touch  of  ferocity  in  it,  and  they 
seemed  weighed  down  by  the  burden  of  the  same  thought 
—a  thought  of  fear,  no  doubt,  but  one  carefully  dis- 
sembled, for  nothing  definite  could  be  read  on  their  coun- 
tenances. The  sole  sign  which  might  indicate  a  secret 
arrangement  was  the  extraordinary  slowness  of  their 
march.  From  time  to  time  some  of  them,  distinguished 
by  rosaries  which  hung  from  their  necks  (dangerous  as 
it  was  to  preserve  this  badge  of  a  religion  suppressed 
rather  than  uprooted),  shook  back  their  hair,  and  lifted 
their  faces  with  an  air  of  mistrust.  At  these  moments 
they  stealthily  examined  the  woods,  the  by-paths,  and 
the  rocks  by  the  roadside,  after  the  fashion  of  a  dog  who 
snuffs  the  air  and  tries  to  catch  the  scent  of  game.  Then 
hearing  nothing  but  the  monotonous  tramp  of  their  silent 
companions,  they  dropped  their  heads  once  more,  and 
resumed  their  looks  of  despair,  like  criminals  sent  to  the 
hulks  for  life  and  death. 

The  march  of  this  column  towards  Mayenne,  the  motley 
elements  which  composed  it,  and  the  difference  of  senti- 


THE   AMBUSH.  9 

ment  which  it  manifested,  received  a  natural  enough 
explanation  from  the  presence  of  another  party  which 
headed  the  detachment.  Some  hundred  and  fifty  regular 
soldiers  marched  in  front,  armed  and  carrying  their  bag- 
gage, under  the  command  of  a  "demi-brigadier. "  It  may 
be  desirable  to  inform  those  who  have  not  personally 
shared  in  the  drama  of  the  Revolution,  that  this  title 
replaced  that  of  "colonel,"  proscribed  by  the  patriots  as 
too  aristocratic.  These  soldiers  belonged  to  the  depot 
of  a  "demi-brigade"  of  infantry  quartered  at  Mayenne. 
In  this  time  of  discord  the  inhabitants  of  the  West  had 
been  wont  to  call  all  Republican  soldiers  "Blues,"  a 
surname  due  to  the  early  blue  and  red  uniforms  which 
are  still  freshly  enough  remembered  to  make  description 
superfluous.  Now  the  detachment  of  Blues  was  escorting 
this  company  of  men,  almost  all  disgusted  with  their 
destination,  to  Mayenne,  where  military  discipline  would 
promptly  communicate  to  them  the  identity  of  temper, 
of  dress,  and  of  bearing  which  at  present  they  lacked  so 
completely. 

The  column  was,  in  fact,  the  contingent  extracted  with 
great  difficulty  from  the  district  of  Fougeres,  and  due  by 
it  in  virtue  of  the  levy  which  the  executive  Directory  of 
the  French  Republic  had  ordered  by  virtue  of  the  law  of 
the  tenth  Messidor  preceding.  The  Government  had 
asked  for  a  hundred  millions  of  money  and  a  hundred 
thousand  men,  in  order  promptly  to  reinforce  its  armies, 
at  that  time  in  process  of  defeat  by  the  Austrians  in 
Italy,  by  the  Prussians  in  Germany,  and  threatened  in 
Switzerland  by  the  Russians,  to  whom  Suwarrow  gave 
good  hope  of  conquering  France.  The  departments  of 
the  West,  known  as  Vendee  and  Brittany,  with  part  of 
Lower  Normandy,  though  pacified  three  years  before  by 
General  Roche's  efforts  after  a  four  years'  war,  seemed 


10  THE    CHOUANS. 

to  have  grasped  at  this  moment  for  beginning  the  strug- 
gle anew.  In  the  face  of  so  many  enemies,  the  Republic 
recovered  its  pristine  energy.  The  defense  of  the  threat- 
ened departments  had  been  at  first  provided  for  by 
entrusting  the  matter  to  the  patriot  inhabitants  in  accord- 
ance with  one  of  the  clauses  of  this  law  of  Messidor.  In 
reality,  the  Government,  having  neither  men  nor  money 
to  dispose  of  at  home,  evaded  the  difficulty  by  a  piece  of 
parliamentary  brag,  and  having  nothing  else  to  send  to 
the  disaffected  departments,  presented  them  with  its 
confidence.  It  was  perhaps  also  hoped  that  the  measure, 
by  arming  the  citizens  one  against  the  other,  would  stifle 
the  insurrection  in  its  cradle.  The  wording  of  the 
clause  which  led  to  disastrous  reprisals  was  this:  "Free 
companies  shall  be  organized  in  the  departments  of  the 
West,"  an  unstatesmanlike  arrangement  which  excited 
in  the  West  itself  such  lively  hostility  that  the  Direct- 
ory despaired  of  an  easy  triumph  over  it.  Therefore,  a 
few  days  later,  it  asked  the  Assembly  to  pass  special 
measures  in  reference  to  the  scanty  contingents  leviable 
in  virtue  of  the  Free  Companies  clause.  So  then,  a  new 
law  introduced  a  few  days  before  the  date  at  which  this 
story  begins,  and  passed  on  the  third  complementary  day 
of  the  Year  Seven,  ordained  the  organization  in  legions 
of  these  levies,  weak  as  they  were.  The  legions  were  to 
bear  the  names  of  the  departments  of  Sarthe,  Orne, 
Mayenne,  Ille-et-Vilaine,  Morbihan,  Loire-Inferieure, 
and  Maine-et-Loire;  but  in  the  words  of  the  Bill,  "being 
specially  employed  in  fighting  the  Chouans,  they  might 
on  no  pretext  be  moved  towards  the  frontiers."  All 
which  details,  tiresome  perhaps,  but  not  generally  known, 
throw  light  at  once  on  the  weakness  of  the  Directory  and 
on  the  march  of  this  herd  of  men  conducted  by  the  Blues. 
Nor  is  it  perhaps  useless  to  add  that  these  handsome  and 


THE   AMBUSH.  I  I 

patriotic  declarations  of  the  Directory  never  were  put  in 
force  further  than  by  their  insertion  in  the  Bulletin  des 
Louis.  The  decrees  of  the  Republic,  supported  no  longer 
either  by  great  moral  ideas,  or  by  patriotism,  or  by  ter- 
ror—the forces  which  had  once  given  them  power — now 
created  on  paper  millions  of  money  and  legions  of  men, 
whereof  not  a  sou  entered  the  treasury,  nor  a  man  the 
ranks.  The  springs  of  the  Revolution  had  broken  down 
in  bungling  hands,  and  the  laws  followed  events  in  their 
application  instead  of  deciding  them. 

The  departments  of  Mayenne  and  of  Ille-et-Vilaine 
were  then  under  the  military  command  of  an  old  officer 
who,  calculating  on  the  spot  the  fittest  measures  to  take, 
resolved  to  try  to  levy  by  force  the  Breton  contingents, 
and  especially  that  of  Fougeres,  one  of  the  most  formid- 
able centers  of  Chouannerie,  hoping  thereby  to  weaken  the 
strength  of  the  threatening  districts.  This  devoted 
soldier  availed  himself  of  the  terms  of  the  law,  illusory 
as  they  were,  to  declare  his  intention  of  at  once  arming 
and  fitting  out  the  "Requisitionaries, "  and  to  assert  that 
he  had  ready  for  them  a  month's  pay  at  the  rate  promised 
by  the  Government  to  these  irregular  troops.  Despite 
the  reluctance  of  the  Bretons  at  that  time  to  undertake 
any  military  service,  the  scheme  succeeded  immediately 
on  the  faith  of  these  promises — succeeded  indeed  so 
promptly  that  the  officer  took  alarm.  But  he  was  an  old 
watch-dog,  not  easy  to  catch  asleep.  No  sooner  had  he 
seen  a  portion  of  the  contingent  of  the  district  come  in, 
than  he  suspected  some  secret  motive  in  so  quick  a  con- 
centration, and  his  guess  that  they  wished  to  procure 
arms  was  perhaps  not  ill  justified.  So,  without  waiting 
for  laggards,  he  took  measures  for  securing,  if  possible, 
his  retreat  on  Alen9on,  so  as  to  draw  near  settled  dis- 
tricts, though  he  knew  that  the  growing  disturbance  in 


12 


THE   CHOUANS. 


the  country  made  the  success  of  his  scheme  very  doubt- 
ful. Therefore  keeping,  as  his  instructions  bade  him, 
the  deepest  silence  as  to  the  disasters  of  the  army,  and 
the  alarming  news  from  La  Vendee,  he  had  endeavored, 
on  the  morning  with  which  our  story  begins,  to  execute 
a  forced  march  to  Mayenne,  where 
he  promised  himself  that  he  would 
interpret  the  law  at  his  own  discre- 
tion, and  fill  the  ranks  of  his  demi-  X 
brigade  with  the  Breton  conscripts. 
For  this  word  "conscript,"  since  so 
famous,  had  for  the  first  time  taken 
legal  place  of  the  term  "requisition- 


ary,  given 
earlier  to 
the  recruits 
of  the  Re- 
public. Be- 
fore quitting  Fougeres,  the  commandant  had  secretly 
(in  order  not  to  awake  the  suspicion  of  the  conscripts  as 
to  the  length  of  the  route)  caused  his  soldiers  to  provide 
themselves  with  ammunition  and  with  rations  of  bread 
sufficient  for  the  whole  party;  and  he  was  resolved  not 


THE  AMBUSH.  13 

bo  halt  at  the  usual  resting-place  of  Jsrnee,  where,  having 
recovered  their  first  surprise,  his  contingent  might  have 
opened  communication  with  the  Chouans  who  were  doubt- 
less spread  over  the  neighboring  country.  The  sullen 
silence  which  prevailed  among  the  requisitionaries, 
caught  unawares  by  the  old  Republican's  device,  and  the 
slowness  of  their  march  over  the  hill,  excited  vehement 
distrust  in  this  demi-brigadier,  whose  name  was  Hulot. 
All  the  striking  points  of  the  sketch  we  have  given,  had 
attracted  his  closest  attention:  so  that  he  proceeded  in 
silence  among  his  five  young  officers,  who  all  respected 
their  chief's  taciturnity.  But  at  the  moment  when  Hulot 
reached  the  crest  of  the  Pilgrim  Hill,  he  turned  his 
head  sharply,  and  as  though  instinctively,  to  glance  at 
the  disturbed  countenances  of  the  requisitionaries,  and 
was  not  long  in  breaking  silence.  Indeed,  the  increas- 
ing slackness  of  the  Bretons'  march  had  already  put  a 
distance  of  some  two  hundred  paces  between  them  and 
their  escort.  Hulot  made  a  peculiar  grimace  which  was 
habitual  with  him. 

'What  is  the  matter  with  these  dainty  gentlemen?" 
cried  he  in  a  loud  tone.  "I  think  our  conscripts  are 
planting  their  stumps  instead  of  stirring  them!  " 

At  these  words  the  officers  who  were  with  him  turned 
with  a  sudden  movement,  somewhat  resembling  the  start 
with  which  a  sleeping  man  wakes  at  a  sudden  noise. 
Sergeants  and  corporals  did  the  like;  and  the  whole  com- 
pany stopped  without  having  <heard  the  wished-for  sound 
of  "Halt!"  If  at  first  the  officers  directed  their  eyes  to 
the  detachment  which,  like  a  lengthened  tortoise,  was 
slowly  climbing  the  hill,  they — young  men  whom  the 
defense  of  their  country  had  torn,  with  many  others,  from 
higher  studies,  and  in  whom  war  had  not  yet  extinguished 
liberal  tastes — were  sufficiently  struck  with  the  spectacle 


14  THE    CHOUANS. 

beneath  their  eyes  to  leave  unanswered  a  remark  of  which 
they  did  not  seize  the  importance.  Though  they  had 
come  from  Fougeres,  whence  the  tableau  which  presented 
itself  to  their  eyes  is  also  visible,  though  with  the  usual 
differences  resulting  from  a  change  in  the  point  of  view, 
they  could  not  help  admiring  it  for  the  last  time,  like 
dilettanti,  who  take  all  the  more  pleasure  in  music  the 
better  they  know  its  details. 

From  the  summit  of  the  Pilgrim  the  traveler  sees  be- 
neath his  eyes  the  wide  valley  of  the  Couesnon,  one  of 
the  culminating  points  on  the  horizon  being  occupied  by 
the  town  of  Fougeres,  the  castle  of  which  dominates 
three  or  four  important  roads  from  the  height  which  it 
occupies.  This  advantage  formerly  made  it  one  of  the 
keys  of  Brittany.  From  their  position  the  officers  could 
descry,  in  all  its  extent,  a  river  basin  as  remarkable  for 
the  extraordinary  fertility  of  its  soil  as  for  the  varied 
character  of  its  aspect.  On  all  sides  mountains  of  gran- 
ite rise  in  a  circle,  disguising  their  ruddy  sides  under 
oak  woods  and  hiding  in  their  slopes  valleys  of  delicious 
coolness.  These  rocky  hills  present  to  the  eye  a  vast 
circular  enclosure,  at  the  bottom  of  which  there  extends 
a  huge  expanse  of  soft  meadow,  arranged  like  an  English 
garden.  The  multitude  of  green  hedges  surrounding 
many  properties  irregular  in  size,  but  all  of  them  well 
wooded,  gives  this  sheet  of  green  an  aspect  rare  in 
France,  and  it  contains  in  its  multiplied  contrast,  of  as- 
pect a  wealth  of  secret  beauties  lavish  enough  to  influ- 
ence even  the  coldest  minds. 

At  the  time  we  speak  of,  the  landscape  was  illuminated 
by  that  fleeting  splendor  with  which  nature  delights 
sometimes  to  heighten  the  beauty  of  her  everlasting  cre- 
ations. While  the  detachment  was  crossing  the  valley 
the  rising  sun  had  slowly  dissipated  the  light  white 


THE  AMBUSH.  15 

mists  which  in  September  mornings  are  wont  to  flit  over 
the  fields.  At  the  moment  when  the  soldiers  turned  their 
heads,  an  invisible  hand  seemed  to  strip  the  landscape 
of  the  last  of  its  veils — veils  of  delicate  cloud  like  a 
shroud  of  transparent  gauze,  covering  precious  jewels  and 
heightening  curiosity  as  they  shine  through  it — over  the 
wide  horizon  which  presented  itself  to  the  officers.  The 
sky  showed  not  the  faintest  cloud  to  suggest,  by  its  silver 
sheen,  that  the  huge  blue  vault  was  the  firmament.  It 
seemed  rather  a  silken  canopy  supported  at  irregular 
intervals  by  the  mountain-tops,  and  set  in  the  air  to 
protect  the  shining  mosaic  of  field  and  meadow,  stream 
and  woodland.  The  officers  could  not  weary  of  survey- 
ing this  wide  space,  so  fertile  in  pastoral  beauty.  Some 
were  long  before  they  could  prevent  their  gaze  from 
wandering  among  the  wonderful  maze  of  thickets  bronzed 
richly  by  the  yellowing  foliage  of  some  tufts  of  trees, 
and  set  off  by  the  emerald  greenness  of  the  intervening 
lawns.  Others  fixed  their  eyes  on  the  contrast  offered 
by  the  ruddy  fields,  where  the  buckwheat,  already  har- 
vested, rose  in  tapering  sheaves  like  the  stacks  of  mus- 
kets piled  by  the  soldier  where  he  bivouacs,  and  divided 
from  each  other  by  other  fields  where  patches  of  rye, 
already  past  the  sickle,  showed  their  lighter  gold.  Here 
and  there  were  a  few  roofs  of  sombre  slate,  whence  rose 
white  smoke.  And  next  the  bright  and  silvery  slashes 
made  by  the  tortuous  streams  of  the  Couesnon  caught 
the  eye  with  one  of  those  optical  tricks  which,  without 
obvious  reason,  cast  a  dreamy  vagueness  on  the  mind. 

The  balmy  freshness  of  the  autumn  breeze,  the  strong 
odor  of  the  forests,  rose  like  a  cloud  of  incense,  and 
intoxicated  the  admiring  gazers  on  this  lovely  country — 
gazers  who  saw  with  rapture  its  unknown  flowers,  its 
flourishing  vegetation,  its  verdure  equal  to  that  of  its 


i6 


THE    CHOUANS. 


neighbor  and  in  one  way  namesake,  England.  The 
scene,  already  worthy  enough  of  the  theatre,  was  further 
enlivened  by  cattle,  while  the  birds  sang  and  made  the 
whole  valley  utter  a  sweet,  low  melody  which  vibrated 
in  the  air.  If  the  reader's  imagination  will  concentrate 
itself  so  as  fully  to  conceive  the  rich  accidents  of  light 
and  shade,  the  misty  mountain  horizons,  the  fantastic 
perspectives  which  sprang  from  the  spots  where  trees 


were  missing,  from  those  where  water  ran,  from  those 
where  coy  windings  of  the  landscape  faded  away;  if  his 
memory  will  color,  so  to  speak,  a  sketch,  as  fugitive  as 
the  moment  when  it  was  taken,  then  those  who  can 
taste  such  pictures  will  have  an  idea,  imperfect  it  is 
true,  of  the  magical  scene  which  surprised  the  still  sen- 
sitive minds  of  the  youthful  ^officers. 

They  could  not  help  an  involuntary  emotion  of  pardon 
for  the  natural   tardiness  of  the  poor  men  who,   as  they 


THE    AMBUSH.  1 7 

thought,  were  regretfully  quitting  their  dear  country  to 
go — perhaps  to  die — afar  off  in  a  strange  land;  but  with 
the  generous  feeling  natural  to  soldiers,  they  hid  their 
sympathy  under  a  pretended  desire  of  examining  the 
military  positions  of  the  country.  Hulot,  however, 
whom  we  must  call  the  commandant,  to  avoid  giving 
him  the  inelegant  name  of  demi-brigadier,  was  one  of 
those  warriors  who,  when  danger  presses,  are  not  the 
men  to  be  caught  by  the  charms  of  a  landscape,  were 
they  those  of  the  Earthly  Paradise  itself.  So  he  shook 
his  head  disapprovingly,  and  contracted  a  pair  of  thick 
black  eyebrows  which  gave  a  harsh  cast  to  his  counte- 
nance. 

"Why  the  devil  do  they  not  come  on?"  he  asked  a  sec- 
ond time,  in  a  voice  deepened  by  the  hardships  of  war. 
"Is  there  some  kind  Virgin  in  the  village  whose  hand 
they  are  squeezing?" 

"You  want  to  know  why?"  answered  a  voice. 

The  commandant,  hearing  sounds  like  those  of  the 
horn  with  which  the  peasants  of  these  valleys  summon 
their  flocks,  turned  sharply  round  as  though  a  sword- 
point  had  pricked  him,  and  saw,  two  paces  off,  a  figure 
even  odder  than  any  of  those  whom  he  was  conveying  to 
Mayenne  to  serve  the  Republic.  The  stranger — a  short, 
stoutly  built  man  with  broad  shoulders — showed  a  head 
nearly  as  big  as  a  bull's,  with  which  it  had  also  other 
resemblances.  Thick  nostrils  shortened  the  nose  in 
appearance  to  even  less  than  its  real  length.  The  man's 
blubber  lips,  pouting  over  teeth  white  as  snow,  his  flap- 
ping ears  and  his  red  hair  made  him  seem  akin  rather  to 
herbivorous  animals  than  to  the  goodly  Caucasian  race. 
Moreover,  the  bare  head  was  made  still  more  remarkable 
by  its  complete  lack  of  some  other  features  of  a  man 
who  has  lived  in  the  society  of  his  fellows.  The  face, 
2 


l8  THE   CHOUANS. 

sun-bronzed  and  with  sharp  outlines  vaguely  suggesting 
the  granite  of  which  the  country-side  consists,  was  the 
only  visible  part  of  this  singular  being's  person.  From 
the  neck  downwards  he  was  wrapped  in  a  sarrau — a  kind 
of  smock-frock  in  red  linen  coarser  still  than  that  of  the 
poorest  conscripts'  wallets  and  breeches.  This  sarrau, 
in  which  an  antiquary  might  have  recognized  the  saga, 
saye,  or  sayon  of  the  Gauls,  ended  at  the  waist,  being 
joined  to  tight  breeches  of  goatskin  by  wooden  fasten- 
ings roughly  sculptured,  but  in  part  still  with  the  bark 
on.  These  goatskins,  or  peaux  de  bique  in  local  speech, 
which  protected  his  thighs  and  his  legs,  preserved  no 
outline  of  the  human  form.  Huge  wooden  shoes  hid  his 
feet,  while  his  hair,  long,  glistening,  and  not  unlike  the 
nap  of  his  goatskins,  fell  on  each  side  of  his  face, 
evenly  parted  and  resembling  certain  mediaeval  sculpt 
ures  still  to  be  seen  in  cathedrals.  Instead  of  the  knotty 
stick  which  the  conscripts  bore  on  their  shoulders,  he 
carried,  resting  on  his  breast  like  a  gun  a  large  whip, 
the  lash  of  which  was  cunningly  plaited,  and  seemed 
twice  the  length  of  whip-lashes  in  general.  There  was 
no  great  difficulty  in  explaining  the  sudden  apparition 
of  this  strange  figure;  indeed,  at  first  sight  some  of  the 
officers  took  the  stranger  for  a  requisitionary  or  conscript 
(the  two  words  were  still  used  indifferently)  who  was 
falling  back  on  his  column,  perceiving  that  it  had  halted. 
Still,  the  commandant  was  much  surprised  by  the  man's 
arrival;  and  though  he  did  not  seem  in  the  least  alarmed, 
his  brow  clouded.  Having  scanned  the  stranger  from 
head  to  foot,  he  repeated,  in  a  mechanical  fashion  and  as 
though  preoccupied  with  gloomy  ideas,  "Yes;  why  do 
they  not  come  on?  do  you  know,  man?" 

"The  reason,"  replied  his  sinister  interlocutor,    in  an 
accent  which  showed  that  he  spoke  French  with  difficulty, 


THE   AMBUSH.  IQ 

"the  reason  is,"  and  he  pointed  his  huge  rough  hand  to 
Ernee,  "that  there  is  Maine,  and  here  Brittany  ends." 

And  he  smote  the  ground  hard,  throwing  the  heavy 
handle  of  his  whip  at  the  commandant's  feet.  The  im- 
pression produced  on  the  bystanders  by  the  stranger's 
laconic  harangue  was  not  unlike  that  which  the  beat  of 
a  savage  drum  might  make  in  the  midst  of  the  regular 
music  of  a  military  band;  yet  "harangue"  is  hardly  word 
enough  to  express  the  hatred  and  the  thirst  for  vengeance 
which  breathed  through  his  haughty  gesture,  his  short 
fashion  of  speech,  and  his  countenance  full  of  a  cold, 
fierce  energy.  The  very  rudeness  of  the  man's  appear- 
ance, fashioned  as  he  was  as  though  by  axe-blows,  his 
rugged  exterior,  the  dense  ignorance  imprinted  on  his 
features,  made  him  resemble  some  savage  demigod.  He 
kept  his  seer-like  attitude,  and  seemed  like  an  apparition 
of  the  very  genius  of  Brittany  aroused  from  a  three- 
years'  sleep,  and  ready  to  begin  once  more  a  war  where 
victory  never  showed  herself  except  swathed  in  mourning 
for  both  sides. 

"Here  is  a  pretty  fellow! "  said  Hulot,  speaking  to 
himself;  "he  looks  as  if  he  were  the  spokesman  of  others 
who  are  about  to  open  a  parley  in  gunshot  language." 

But  when  he  had  muttered  these  words  between  his 
teeth,  the  commandant  ran  his  eyes  in  turn  from  the  man 
before  him  to  the  landscape,  from  the  landscape  to  the 
detachment,  from  the  detachment  to  the  steep  slopes  of 
the  road,  their  crests  shaded  by  the  mighty  Breton 
broom.  Then  he  brought  them  back  sharply  on  the 
stranger,  as  it  were  questioning  him  mutely  before  he 
ended  with  the  brusquely  spoken  question,  "Whence  come 
you?  " 

His  eager  and  piercing  eye  tried  to  guess  the  secrets 
hidden  under  the  man's  impenetrable  countenance, 


2O  THE    CHOUANS. 

which  in  the  interval  had  fallen  into  the  usual  sheepish 
expression  of  torpidity  that  wraps  the  peasant  when  not 
in  a  state  of  excitement. 

"From  the  country  of  the  Gars,"  answered  the  man, 
quite  unperturbed. 

"Your  name?  " 

"Marche-cl-  Terre. " 

"Why  do  you  still  use  your  Chouan  name  in  spite  of 
the  law?" 

But  Marche-a-Terre,  as  he  was  pleased  to  call  himself, 
stared  at  the -commandant  with  so  utterly  truthful  an  air 
of  imbecility  that  the  soldier  thought  he  really  had  not 
understood  him. 

"Are  you  one  of  the  Fougeres  contingent?" 

To  which  question  Marche-a-Terre  answered  by  one  of 
those  "I  don't  know's"  whose  very  tone  arrests  all  further 
inquiry  in  despair.  He  seated  himself  calmly  by  the 
way-side,  drew  from  his  smock  some  pieces  of  thin  and 
black  buckwheat  cake — a  national  food  whose  unenticing 
delights  can  be  comprehended  of  Bretons  alone — and 
began  to  eat  with  a  stolid  nonchalance.  He  gave  the 
impression  of  so  complete  a  lack  of  intelligence  that  the 
officers  by  turns  compared  him,  as  he  sat  there,  to  one  of 
the  cattle  browsing  on  the  fat  pasturage  of  the  valley, 
to  the  savages  of  America,  and  to  one  of  the  aborigines 
of  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope.  Deceived  by  his  air,  the 
commandant  himself  was  beginning  not  to  listen  to  his 
own  doubts,  when,  prudently  giving  a  last  glance  at  the 
man  whom  he  suspected  of  being  the  herald  of  approach- 
ing carnage,  he  saw  his  hair,  his  smock,  his  goatskins, 
covered  with  thorns,  scraps  of  leaves,  splinters  of  timber 
and  brushwood,  just  as  if  the  Chouan  had  made  a  long 
journey  through  dense  thickets.  He  glanced  significantly 
at  his  adjutant  Gerard,  who  was  near  him,  squeezed  his 


THE    AMBUSH.  21 

hand  hard,  and  whispered,  "We  came  for  wool,  and  we 
shall  go  home  shorn." 

The  officers  gazed  at  each  other  in  silent  astonish- 
ment. 

It  may  be  convenient  to  digress  a  little  here  in  order 
to  communicate  the  fears  of  Commandant  Hulot  to  some 
home  keeping  folk  who  doubt  everything  because  they  see 
nothing,  and  who  might  even  deny  the  existence  of  men 
like  Marche-a-Terre  and  those  peasants  of  the  West 
whose  behavior  was  then  so  heroic.  The  word  gars  (pro- 
nounced go)  is  a  waif  of  Celtic.  It  has  passed  from 
Low  Breton  into  French,  and  the  word  is,  of  our  whole 
modern  vocabulary,  that  which  contains  the  oldest  mem- 
ories. The  gais  was  the  chief  weapon  of  the  Gaels  or 
Gauls:  gaisde  meant  "armed;  "  gais,  "bravery;  "  gas,  "force" 
— comparison  with  which  terms  will  show  the  connection 
of  the  word  gars  with  these  words  of  our  ancestors' 
tongue.  The  word  has  a  further  analogy  with  the  Latin 
z'ir,  "man;"  the  root  of  virtus,  "strength,"  "courage."  This 
little  disquisition  may  be  excused  by  its  patriotic  char- 
acter; and  it  may  further  serve  to  rehabilitate  in  some 
persons'  minds  terms  such  as  gars,  garcon,  garconnette, 
garce,  garcette,  which  are  generally  excluded  from  common 
parlance  as  improper,  but  which  have  a  warlike  origin, 
and  which  will  recur  here  and  there  in  the  course  of  our 
history.  "Tis  a  brave  wench"  (garce)  was  the  somewhat 
misunderstood  praise  which  Madame  de  Stael  received 
in  a  little  village  of  the  Vendomois,  where  she  spent 
some  days  of  her  exile.  Now  Brittany  is  of  all  France 
the  district  where  Gaulish  customs  have  left  the  deepest 
trace.  The  parts  of  the  province  where,  even  in  our 
days,  the  wild  life  and  the  superstitious  temper  of  our 
rude  forefathers  may  still,  so  to  speak,  be  taken  red- 
handed,  are  called  the  country  of  the  gars.  When  a  town- 


22  THE    CHOUANS. 

ship  is  inhabited  by  a  considerable  number  of  wild  men 
like  him  who  has  just  appeared  on  our  scene,  the  coun- 
try-folk call  them  "the  gars  of  such  and  such  a  parish;" 
and  this  stereotyped  appellation  is  a  kind  of  reward  for 
the  fidelity  with  which  these  gars  strive  to  perpetuate 
the  traditions  of  Gaulish  language  and  manners.  Thus, 
also,  their  life  keeps  deep  traces  of  the  superstitious  be- 
liefs and  practices  of  ancient  times.  In  one  place,  feudal 
customs  are  still  observed;  in  another,  antiquaries  find 
Druidic  monuments  still  standing;  in  yet  another,  the 
spirit  of  modern  civilization  is  aghast  at  having  to  make 
its  way  through  huge  primeval  forests.  An  inconceivable 
ferocity  and  a  bestial  obstinacy,  found  in  company  with 
the  most  absolute  fidelity  to  an  oath;  a  complete  ab- 
sence of  our  laws,  our  manners,  our  dress,  our  new-fangled 
coinage,  our  very  language,  combined  with  a  patriarchal 
simplicity  of  life  and  with  heroic  virtues,  unite  in  re- 
ducing the  dwellers  in  these  regions  below  the  Mohicans 
and  the  redskins  of  North  America  in  the  higher  intel- 
lectual activities,  but  make  them  as  noble,  as  cunning, 
as  full  of  fortitude  as  these.  Placed  as  Brittany  is  in 
the  center  of  Europe,  it  is  a  more  curious  field  of  observa- 
tion than  Canada  itself.  Surrounded  by  light  and  heat, 
whose  beneficent  influences  do  not  touch  it,  the  country 
is  like  a  coal  which  lies  "black-out"  and  ice-cold  in  the 
midst  of  a  glowing  hearth.  All  the  efforts  which  some 
enlightened  spirits  have  made  to  win  this  beautiful  part 
of  France  over  to  social  life  and  commercial  prosperity — 
nay,  even  the  attempts  of  Government  in  the  same  direc- 
tion—perish whelmed  in  the  undisturbed  bosom  of  a  pop- 
ulation devoted  to  immemorial  use  and  wont.  But  suffi- 
cient explanations  of  this  ill-luck  are  found  in  the  char- 
acter of  the  soil,  still  furrowed  with  ravines,  torrents, 
lakes,  and  marshes;  still  bristling  with  hedges — impro- 


THE   AMBUSH.  23 

vised  earth-works,  which  make  a  fastness  of  every  field; 
destitute  alike  of  roads  and  canals;  and  finally,  in  virtue 
of  the  genius  of  an  uneducated  population,  delivered  over 
to  prejudices  whose  dangerous  nature  our  history  will 
discover,  and  obstinately  hostile  to  new  methods  of  agri- 
culture. The  very  picturesque  arrangement  of  the  coun- 
try, the  very  superstitions  of  its  inhabitants,  prevent  at 
once  the  association  of  individuals  and  the  advantages 
of  comparison  and  exchange  of  ideas.  There  are  no  vil- 
lages in  Brittany;  and  the  rudely  built  structures  which 
are  called  dwellings  are  scattered  all  over  the  country. 
Each  family  lives  as  if  in  a  desert;  and  the  only  recog- 
nized meetings  are  the  quickly  dissolved  congregations 
which  Sunday  and  other  ecclesiastical  festivals  bring  to- 
gether at  the  parish  church.  These  meetings,  where  there 
is  no  exchange  of  conversation,  and  which  are  dominated 
by  the  Rector,  the  only  master  whom  these  rude  spirits 
admit,  last  a  few  hours  only.  After  listening  to  the  awe- 
inspiring  words  of  the  priest,  the  peasant  goes  back  for  a 
whole  week  to  his  unwholesome  dwelling,  which  he  leaves 
but  for  work,  and  whither  he  returns  but  to  sleep.  If  he 
receives  a  visitor,  it  is  still  the  Rector,  the  soul  of  the 
country-side.  And  thus  it  was  that  at  the  voice  of  such 
priests  thousands  of  men  flew  at  the  throat. of  the  Repub- 
lic, and  that  these  quarters  of  Brittany  furnished,  five 
years  before  the  date  at  which  our  story  begins,  whole 
masses  of  soldiery  for  the  first  Chouannerie.  The  broth- 
ers Cottereau,  bold  smugglers,  who  gave  this  war  its 
name,  plied  their  perilous  trade  between  Laval  and 
Fougeres.  But  the  insurrection  in  these  districts  had  no 
character  of  nobility.  And  it  may  be  said  with  confidence 
that  if  La  Vendee  made  war  of  brigandage,*  Brittany 


*  I  have  done  violence  to  the  text  here  as  printed:  Si  La  Vendee  fit  unbrigand- 
age  de  la  guerre.  But  the  point  of  the  antithesis  and  the  truth  of  history  seem  abso- 
lutely to  require  the  supposition  of  a  misprint. —  Translator's  Note. 


24  THE    CHOUANS. 

made  brigandage  of  war.  The  proscription  of  the  royal 
family,  the  destruction  of  religion,  were  to  the  Chouans 
only  a  pretext  for  plunder;  and  the  incidents  of  intestine 
strife  took  some  color  from  the  wild  roughness  of  the 
manners  of  the  district.  When  real  defenders  of  the 
monarchy  came  to  recruit  soldiers  among  these  popula- 
tions, equally  ignorant  and  warlike,  they  tried  in  vain  to 
infuse  under  the  white  flag  some  element  of  sublimity 
into  the  raids  which  made  Chouannerie  odious;  and  the 
Chouans  remain  a  memorable  instance  of  the  danger  of 
stirring  up  the  more  uncivilized  portions  of  a  people. 

The  above-given  description  of  the  first  valley  which 
Brittany  offers  to  the  traveler's  eye,  the  picture  of  the 
men  who  made  up  the  detachment  of  requisitionaries, 
the  account  of  the  gars  who  appeared  at  the  top  of  Pil- 
grim Hill,  give  in  miniature  a  faithful  idea  of  the  prov- 
ince and  its  inhabitants;  any  trained  imagination  can, 
by  following  these  details,  conceive  the  theatre  and  the 
methods  of  the  war;  for  its  whole  elements  are  there. 
At  that  time  the  blooming  hedges  of  these  lovely  valleys 
dih  invisible  foes:  each  meadow  was  a  place  of  arms, 
each  tree  threatened  a  snare,  each  willow  trunk  held  an 
ambuscade.  The  field  of  battle  was  everywhere.  At 
each  corner  gun-barrels  lay  in  wait  for  the  Blues,  whom 
young  girls  laughingly  enticed  under  fire,  without  think- 
ing themselves  guilty  of  treachery.  Nay,  they  made  pil- 
grimage with  their  fathers  and  brothers  to  this  and  that 
Virgin  of  worm-eaten  wood  to  ask  at  once  for  suggestion 
of  stratagems  and  absolution  of  sins.  The  religion,  or 
rather  the  fetichism,  of  these  uneducated  creatures, 
robbed  murder  of  all  remorse.  Thus,  when  once  the 
strife  was  entered  on,  the  whole  country  was  full  of  ter- 
rors: noise  was  as  alarming  as  silence;  an  amiable  recep- 
tion as  threats;  the  family  hearth  as  the  highway. 


THE    AMBUSH.  25 

Treachery  itself  was  convinced  of  its  honesty;  and  the 
Bretons  were  savages  who  served  God  and  the  king  on 
the  principles  of  Mohicans  on  the  war-path.  But  to  give 
a  description,  exact  in  all  points,  of  this  struggle,  the 
historian  ought  to  add  that  no  sooner  was  Hoche's  peace 
arranged  than  the  whole  country  became  smiling  and 
friendly.  The  very  families  who  over  night  had  been  at 
each  other's  throats,  supped  the  next  day  without  fear  of 
danger  under  the  same  roof. 

Hulot  had  no  sooner  detected  the  secret  indications  of 
treachery  which  Marche-a-Terre's 
goatskins   revealed,    than    he    be- 
came certain  of  the  breach  of  this 
same  fortunate  peace,  due  once  to 
the  genius  of  Hoche,  and  now,  as 
it  seemed  to  him,   impossible  to 
maintain.      So,    then,  war  had  re- 
vived,   and    no    doubt  would    be, 
after  a  three-years'  rest,  more  ter- 
rible than  ever.      The  revolution, 
which  had  waxed  milder  since  the 
Ninth  Thermidor,  would  very  likely 
resume    the    character    of    terror 
which  made  it  odious  to  well-dis- 
posed minds.      English   gold  had 
doubtless,   as  always,  helped  the 
internal  discords  of  France.      The 
Republic,     abandoned     by 
young  Bonaparte,  who  had 
seemed  its  tutelary  genius, 
appeared  incapable    of   re- 
sisting  so    many  enemies,  -^^  iLE»«,llt 
the  worst  of  whom  was  showing  himself  last.      Civil  war, 
foretold  already  by  hundreds  of  petty  risings,  assumed  an 


26  THE    CHOUANS. 

air  of  altogether  novel  gravity  when  the  Chouans  dared  to 
conceive  the  idea  of  attacking  so  strong  an  escort.  Such 
were  the  thoughts  which  followed  one  another  (though  by 
no  means  so  succinctly  put)  in  the  mind  of  Hulot  as  soon 
as  he  seemed  to  see  in  the  apparition  of  Marche-a-Terre 
a  sign  of  an  adroitly  laid  ambush;  for  he  alone  at  once 
understood  the  hidden  danger. 

The  silence  following  the  commandant's  prophetic 
observation  to  Gerard,  with  which  we  finished  our  last 
scene,  gave  Hulot  an  opportunity  of  recovering  his  cool- 
ness. The  old  soldier  had  nearly  staggered.  He  could 
not  clear  his  brow  as  he  thought  of  being  surrounded 
already  by  the  horrors  of  a  war  whose  atrocities  canni- 
bals themselves  might  haply  have  refused  to  approve. 
Captain  Merle  and  Adjutant  Gerard,  his  two  friends, 
were  at  a  loss  to  explain  the  alarm,  so  new  to  them, 
which  their  chief's  face  showed;  and  they  gazed  at 
Marche-a-Terre,  who  was  still  placidly  eating  his  ban- 
nocks at  the  road-side,  without  being  able  to  see  the 
least  connection  between  a  brute  beast  of  this  kind  and 
the  disquiet  of  their  valiant  leader.  But  Hulot's  coun- 
tenance soon  grew  brighter;  sorry  as  he  was  for  the 
Republic's  ill-fortune,  he  was  rejoiced  at  having  to  fight 
for  her,  and  he  cheerfully  promised  himself  not  to  fall 
blindly  into  the  nets  of  the  Chouans,  and  to  outwit  the 
man.  however  darkly  cunning  he  might  be,  whom  they 
did  himself  the  honor  to  send  against  him. 

Before,  however,  making  up  his  mind  to  any  course  of 
action,  he  set  himself  to  examine  the  position  in  which 
his  enemies  would  fain  surprise  him.  When  he  saw  that 
the  road  in  the  midst  of  which  he  was  engaged  passed 
through  a  kind  of  gorge,  not,  it  is  true,  very  deep,  but 
flanked  by  woods,  and  with  several  by-paths  debouching 
on  it,  lie  once  more  frowned  hard  with  his  black  brows, 


THE    AMBUSH. 


and    then   said   to   his    friends,  in    a    low   voice,   full   of 
emotion 

"We  are  in  a  pretty  wasps' -nest!  " 

"But  of  whom  are  you  afraid?"  asked  Gerard. 

"Afraid?"  repeated  the  commandant.  "Yes;  afraid  is 
the  word.  I  always  have  been  afraid  of  being  shot  like  a 
dog,  as  the  road  turns  a  wood  with  no  one  to  cry  'Qui  vive?'" 

"Bah!"  said  Merle,  laughing;  "'Qui  vive?'  itself  is  a 
bad  phrase!  " 

"Are  we,  then,  really  in  danger?"  asked  Gerard,  as  much 
surprised  at  Hu- 
lot's  coolness  as 
he    had-  been  at 
his  passing  fear. 

"Hist!"  said 
the  command- 
ant; "we  are  in 
the  wolf  s  throat 
and  as  it  is  as 
dark  there  as  in 
a  chimney,  we 
had  better  light 
a  candle.  Luck  • 
ily, "  he  went 
on,  "we  hold  the, 
top  of  the  ridge. " 
He  bestowed  a 
forcible  epithet 
upon  the  said 
ridge,  and  add- 
ed, "I  shall  see 

L»»II. 
my    way    soon, 

perhaps."  Then 

taking  the  two  officers  with  him,   he  posted  them  round 


28  THE    CHOUANS. 

Marche-a-Terre;  but  the  gars,  pretending  to  think  that  he 
was  in  their  way,  rose  quickly.  "Stay  there,  rascal !  "  cried 
Hulot,  giving  him  a  push,  and  making  him  fall  back  on 
the  slope  where  he  had  been  sitting.  And  from  that 
moment  the  demi-brigadier  kept  his  eye  steadily  on  the 
Breton,  who  seemed  quite  indifferent.  "Friends, "  said  he, 
speaking  low  to  the  two  officers,  "it  is  time  to  tell  you 
that  the  fat  is  in  the  fire  down  there  at  Paris.  The  Direct- 
ory, in  consequence  of  a  row  in  the  Assembly,  has  mud- 
dled our  business  once  more.  The  pentarchy  of  panta- 
loons (the  last  word  is  nearer  French  at  any  rate)  have 
lost  a  good  blade,  for  Bernadotte  will  have  nothing  more 
to  do  with  them. " 

"Who  takes  his  place?"  asked  Gerard,  eagerly. 

"Milet-Mureau,  an  old  dotard.  'Tis  an  awkward  time 
for  choosing  blockheads  to  steer  the  ship.  Meanwhile, 
English  signal-rockets  are  going  off  round  the  coast;  all 
these  cockchafers  of  Vendeans  and  Chouans  are  abroad  on 
the  wing:  and  those  who  pull  the  strings  of  the  pup- 
pets have  chosen  their  time  just  when  we  are  beaten  to 
our  knees. " 

"How  so?"  said  Merle. 

"Our  armies  are  being  beaten  on  every  side,"  said 
Hulot,  lowering  his  voice  more  and  more.  "The  Chouans 
have  twice  interrupted  the  post,  and  I  only  received  my 
last  dispatches  and  the  latest  decrees  by  an  express 
which  Bernadotte  sent  the  moment  he  quitted  the  min- 
istry. Luckily,  friends  have  given  me  private  informa- 
tion of  the  mess  we  are  in.  Fouch£  has  found  out  that 
the  tyrant  Louis  XVIII.  has  been  warned  by  traitors  at 
Paris  to  send  a  chief  to  lead  his  wild  ducks  at  home 
here.  It  is  thought  that  Barras  is  playing  the  Republic 
false.  In  fine,  Pitt  and  the  princes  have  sent  hither  a 
ci-devant,  a  man  full  of  talent  and  vigor,  whose  hope  is 


THE    AMBUSH.  2Q 

to  unite  Vendeans  and  Chouans,  and  so  lower  the  Repub- 
lic's crest.  The  fellow  has  actually  landed  in  Morbihan; 
I  learned  it  before  anyone,  and  told  our  clever  ones  at 
Paris.  He  calls  himself  the  Gars.  For  all  these  cattle," 
said  he,  pointing  to  Marche-a-Terre,  "fit  themselves  with 
names  which  would  give  an  honest  patriot  a  stomach- 
ache if  he  bore  them.  Moreover,  our  man  is  about  here; 
and  the  appearance  of  this  Chouan"  (he  pointed  to 
Marche-a-Terre  once  more)  "shows  me  that  he  is  upon 
us.  But  they  don't  teach  tricks  to  an  old  monkey;  and 
you  shall  help  me  to  cage  my  birds  in  less  than  no  time. 
I  should  be  a  pretty  fool  if  I  let  myself  be  trapped  like 
a  crow  by  a  ci-devant  who  comes  from  London  to  dust  our 
jackets  for  us!  " 

When  they  learned  this  secret  and  critical  intelligence, 
the  two  officers,  knowing  that  their  commandant  never 
took  alarm  at  shadows,  assumed  the  steady  mien  which 
soldiers  wear  in  time  of  danger  when  they  are  of  good 
stuff  and  accustomed  to  look  ahead  in  human  affairs. 
Gerard,  whose  post,  since  suppressed,  put  him  in  close 
relations  with  his  chief,  was  about  to  answer  and  to 
inquire  into  all  the  political  news,  a  part  of  which  had 
evidently  been  omitted.  But  at  a  sign  from  Hulot  he 
refrained,  and  all  three  set  themselves  to  watch  Marche- 
a-Terre.  Yet  the  Chouan  did  not  exhibit  the  faintest 
sign  of  emotion,  though  he  saw  himself  thus  scanned  by 
men  as  formidable  by  their  wits  as  by  their  bodily 
strength.  The  curiosity  of  the  two  officers,  new  to  this 
kind  of  warfare,  was  vividly  excited  by  the  beginning  of 
an  affair  which  seemed  likely  to  have  something  of  the 
interest  of  a  romance,  and  they  were  on  the  point  of 
making  jokes  on  the  situation.  But  at  the  first  word  of 
the  kind  that  escaped  them,  Hulot  said,  with  a  grave 
look,  "God's  thunder,  citizens!  don't  light  your  pipes 


30  THE    CHOUANS. 

on  the  powder  barrel.  Cheerfulness  out  of  season  is  as 
bad  as  water  poured  into  a  sieve.  Gerard,"  continued 
he,  leaning  towards  his  adjutant's  ear,  "come  quietly 
close  to  this  brigand,  and  be  ready  at  his  first  suspicious 
movement  to  run  him  through  the  body.  For  my  part,  I 
will  take  measures  to  keep  up  the  conversation,  if  our 
unknown  friends  are  good  enough  to  begin  it." 

Gerard  bowed  slightly  to  intimate  obedience,  and  then 
began  to  observe  the  chief  objects  of  the  valley,  which 
have  been  sufficiently  described.  He  seemed  to  wish  to 
examine  them  more  attentively,  and  kept  walking  up  and 
down  and  without  ostensible  object;  but  you  may  be 
sure  that  the  landscape  was  the  last  thing  he  looked  at. 
For  his  part,  Marche-a-Terre  gave  not  a  sign  of  con- 
sciousness that  the  officer's  movements  threatened  him; 
from  the  way  in  which  he  played  with  his  whip-lash,  you 
might  have  thought  that  he  was  fishing  in  the  ditch  by 
the  road-side. 

While  Gerard  thus  manoeuvred  to  gain  a  position  in 
front  of  the  Chouan,  the  commandant  whispered  to 
Merle:  "Take  a  sergeant  with  ten  picked  men  and  post 
them  yourself  above  us  at  the  spot  on  the  hill-top  where 
the  road  widens  out  level,  and  where  you  can  see  a  good 
long  stretch  of  the  way  to  Ern£e;  choose  a  place  where 
there  are  no  trees  at  the  road-side,  and  where  the  ser- 
geant can  overlook  the  open  country.  Let  Clef-des-Cceurs 
be  the  man:  he  has  his  wits  about  him.  It  is  no  laugh- 
ing matter:  I  would  not  give  a  penny  for  our  skins  if  we 
do  not  take  all  the  advantage  we  can  get." 

\Yhile  Captain  Merle  executed  this  order  with  a 
promptitude  of  which  he  well  knew  the  importance,  the 
commandant  shook  his  right  hand  to  enjoin  deep  silence 
on  the  soldiers  who  stood  round  him,  and  who  were  talk- 
ing at  ease.  Another  gesture  bade  them  get  once  more 


THE    AMBUSH. 


under  arms.  As  soon  as  quiet  prevailed,  he  directed  his 
eyes  first  to  one  side  of  the  road  and  then  to  the  other, 
listening  with  anxious  attention,  as  if  he  hoped  to  catch 

_  .    •••~'~>,--^r    •'some  stifled  noise, 
'«•.  -'V^.^:'—  -'  some    clatter    of 

weapons,   or  some 
"_  .J;   foot-falls    prelim- 


inary  to  the  expected  trouble.  His  black  and  piercing 
eye  seemed  to  probe  the  furthest  recesses  of  the  woods; 
but  as  no  symptoms  met  him  there,  he  examined  the 
gravel  of  the  road  after  the  fashion  of  savages,  trying 
to  discover  some  traces  of  the  invisible  enemy  whose 
audacity  was  well  known  to  him.  In  despair  at  seeing 
nothing  to  justify  his  fears,  he  advanced  to  the  edge  of 


32  THE    CHOUANS. 

the  road-way,  and  after  carefully  climbing  its  slight  ris- 
ings, paced  their  tops  slowly;  but  then  he  remembered 
how  indispensable  his  experience  was  to  the  safety  of  his 
troops,  and  descended.  His  countenance  darkened:  for 
the  chiefs  of  those  days  always  regretted  that  they  were 
not  able  to  keep  the  most  dangerous  tasks  for  themselves. 
The  other  officers  and  the  privates,  noticing  the  absorp- 
tion of  a  leader  whose  disposition  they  loved,  and  whose 
bravery  they  knew,  perceived  that  his  extreme  care 
betokened  some  danger;  but  as  they  were  not  in  a  posi- 
tion to  appreciate  its  gravity,  they  remained  motionless, 
and,  by  a  sort  of  instinct,  even  held  their  breaths.  Like 
dogs  who  would  fain  make  out  the  drift  of  the  orders — 
to  them  incomprehensible — of  a  cunning  hunter,  but  who 
obey  him  implicitly,  the  soldiers  gazed  by  turns  at  the 
valley  of  the  Couesnon,  at  the  woods  by  the  road-side, 
and  at  the  stern  face  of  their  commander,  trying  to  read 
their  impending  fate  in  each.  Glance  met  glance,  and 
even  more  than  one  smile  ran  from  lip  to  lip. 

As  Hulot  bent  his  brows,  Beau-Pied,  a  young  sergeant 
who  passed  for  the  wit  of  the  company,  said,  in  a  half 
whisper:  "Where  the  devil  have  we  put  our  foot  in  it 
that  an  old  soldier  like  Hulot  makes  such  muddy  faces 
at  us?  he  looks  like  a  court-martial!" 

But  Hulot  bent  a  stern  glance  on  Beau-Pied,  and  the 
due  "silence  in  the  ranks"  once  more  prevailed.  In  the 
midst  of  this  solemn  hush  the  laggard  steps  of  the  con- 
scripts, under  whose  feet  the  gravel  gave  a  dull  crunch, 
distracted  vaguely,  with  its  regular  pulse,  the  general 
anxiety.  Only  those  can  comprehend  such  an  indefinite 
feeling,  who,  in  the  grip  of  some  cruel  expectation,  have 
during  the  stilly  night  felt  the  heavy  beatings  of  their 
oun  hearts  quicken  at  some  sound  whose  monotonous 
recurrence  seems  to  distill  terror  drop  by  drop.  But  the 


THE    AMBUSH.  33 

commandant  once  more  took  his  place  in  the  midst  of 
the  troops,  and  began  to  ask  himself,  "Can  I  have  been 
deceived?"  He  was  beginning  to  look,  with  gathering 
anger  flashing  from  his  eyes,  on  the  calm  and  stolid  figure 
of  Marche-a-Terre,  when  a  touch  of  savage  irony  which 
he  seemed  to  detect  in  the  dull  eyes  of  the  Chouan  urged 
him  not  to  discontinue  his  precautions.  At  the  same 
moment  Captain  Merle,  after  carrying  out  Hulot's  orders, 
came  up  to  rejoin  him.  The  silent  actors  in  this  scene, 
so  like  a  thousand  other  scenes  which  made  this  war 
exceptionally  dramatic,  waited  impatiently  for  new  inci- 
dents, eager  to  see  light  thrown  on  the  dark  side  of  their 
military  situation  by  the  manoeuvres  which  might  fol- 
low. 

"We  did  well,  captain,"  said  the  commandant,  "to  set 
the  few  patriots  among  these  requisitionaries  at  the  tail 
of  the  detachment.  Take  a  dozen  more  stout  fellows, 
put  Sublieutenant  Lebrun  at  their  head,  and  lead  them 
at  quick  march  to  the  rear.  They  are  to  support  the 
patriots  who  are  there,  and  to  bustle  on  the  whole  flock 
of  geese  briskly,  so  as  to  bring  it  up  at  the  double  to 
the  height  which  their  comrades  already  occupy.  I  will 
wait  for  you. " 

The  captain  disappeared  in  the  midst  of  his  men,  and 
the  commandant,  looking  by  turns  at  four  brave  soldiers 
whose  activity  and  intelligence  were  known  to  him, 
beckoned  silently  to  them  with  a  friendly  gesture  of  the 
fingers,  signifying  "Come;"  and  they  came. 

"You  served  with  me  under  Hoche, "  he  said,  "when  we 
brought  those  brigands  who  called  themselves  the 
'King's  Huntsmen'  to  reason;  and  you  know  how  they 
used  to  hide  themselves  in  order  to  pot  the  Blues!  " 

At  this  encomium  on  their  experience  the  four  soldiers 
nodded  with  a  significant  grin,  exhibiting  countenances 
3 


34  THE   CHOUANS. 

full  of  soldierly  heroism,  but  whose  careless  indifference 
announced  that,  since  the  struggle  had  begun  between 
France  and  Europe,  they  had  thought  of  nothing  beyond 
their  knapsacks  behind  them  and  their  bayonets  in  front. 
Their  lips  were  contracted  as  with  tight-drawn  purse- 
strings,  and  their  watchful  and  curious  eyes  gazed  at 
their  leader. 

"Well,"  continued  Hulot,  who  possessed  in  perfection 
the  art  of  speaking  the  soldier's  highly  colored  language, 
"old  hands  such  as  we  must  not  let  ourselves  be  caught 
by  Chouans,  and  there  are  Chouans  about  here,  or  my 
name  is  not  Hulot.  You  four  must  beat  the  two  sides  of 
the  road  in  front.  The  detachment  will  go  slowly.  Keep 
up  well  with  it.  Try  not  to  lose  the  number  of  your 
mess,*  and  do  your  scouting  there  smartly." 

Then  he  pointed  out  to  them  the  most  dangerous  heights 
on  the  way.  They  all,  by  way  of  thanks,  carried  the 
backs  of  their  hands  to  the  old  three-cornered  hats,  whose 
tall  brims,  rain-beaten  and  limp  with  age,  slouched  on 
the  crown;  and  one  of  them,  Larose,  a  corporal,  and  well 
known  to  Hulot,  made  his  musket  ring,  and  said,  "We 
will  play  them  a  tune  on  the  rifle,  commandant!" 

They  set  off,  two  to  the  right,  the  others  to  the  left; 
and  the  company  saw  them  disappear  on  both  sides  with 
no  slight  anxiety.  This  feeling  was  shared  by  the  com- 
mandant, who  had  little  doubt  that  he  was  sending  them 
to  certain  death.  He  could  hardly  help  shuddering  when 
the  tops  of  their  hats  were  no  longer  visible,  while  both 
officers  and  men  heard  the  dwindling  sound  of  their  steps 
on  the  dry  leaves  with  a  feeling  all  the  acuter  that  it 
was  carefully  veiled.  For  in  war  there  are  situations 
when  the  risk  of  four  men's  lives  causes  more  alarm  than 


*  This  is  a   naval    rather    than    a  military  metaphor;    but   I  do    not  know  how 
Thomas  Atkins  would  express  desccndre  la  garde.— Translator's  Note. 


THE    AMBUSH.  35 

the  thousands  of  slain  at  a  battle  of  Jemmapes.  Soldiers' 
faces  have  such  various  and  such  rapidly  fleeting  expres- 
sions, that  those  who  would  sketch  them  are  forced  to 
appeal  to  memories  of  soldiers,  and  to  leave  peaceable 
folk  to  study  for  themselves  their  dramatic  countenances, 
for  storms  so  rich  in  details  as  these  could  not  be  described 
without  intolerable  tediousness. 

Just  as  the  last  flash  of  the  four  bayonets  disappeared 
Captain  Merle  returned,  having  accomplished  the  com- 
mandant's orders  with  the  speed  of  lightning.  Hulot, 
with  a  few  words  of  command,  set  the  rest  of  his  troops 
in  fighting  order  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  Then  he 
bade  them  occupy  the  summit  of  the  Pilgrim,  where  his 
scanty  van-guard  was  posted;  but  he  himself  marched 
last  and  backwards  so  as  to  note  the  slightest  change  at 
any  point  of  the  scene  which  nature  had  made  so  beauti- 
ful and  man  so  full  of  fear.  He  had  reached  the  spot 
where  Gerard  was  mounting  guard  on  Marche-a-Terre, 
when  the  Chouan,  who  had  followed  with  an  apparently 
careless  eye  all  the  commandant's  motions,  and  who  was 
at  the  moment  observing  with  unexpected  keenness  the 
two  soldiers  who  were  busy  in  the  woods  at  the  right, 
whistled  twice  or  thrice  in  such  a  manner  as  to  imitate 
the  clear  and  piercing  note  of  the  screech-owl.  Now,  the 
three  famous  smugglers  mentioned  above  used  in  the 
same  way  to  employ  at  night  certain  variations  on  this 
hoot  in  order  to  interchange  intelligence  of  ambuscades, 
of  threatening  dangers,  and  of  every  fact  of  importance 
to  them.  It  was  from  this  that  the  surname  Chuin,  the 
local  word  for  the  owl,  was  given  to  them,  and  the  term, 
slightly  corrupted,  served  in  the  first  war  to  designate 
those  who  followed  the  ways  and  obeyed  the  signals  of 
the  brothers.  When  he  heard  this  suspicious  whistle, 
the  commandant  halted,  and  looked  narrowly  at  Marche- 


36  THE    CHOUANS. 

a-Terre.  He  pretended  to  be  deceived  by  the  sheepish 
air  of  the  Chouan,  on  purpose  to  keep  him  near  to  him- 
self, as  a  barometer  to  indicate  the  movements  of  the 
enemy.  And  therefore  he  checked  the  hand  of  Gerard,  who 
was  about  to  dispatch  him.  Then  he  posted  two  soldiers 
a  couple  of  paces  from  the  spy,  and  in  loud,  clear  tones 
bade  them  shoot  him  at  the  first  signal  that  he  gave. 
Yet  Marche-a-Terre,  in  spite  of  his  imminent  danger,  did 
not  show  any  emotion,  and  the  commandant,  who  was  still 
observing  him,  noting  his  insensibility,  said  to  Gerard: 
"The  goose  does  not  know  his  business.  'Tis  never 
easy  to  read  a  Chouan' s  face,  but  this  fellow  has  betrayed 
himself  by^vishing  to  show  his  pluck.  Look  you,  Gerard, 
if  he  had  pretended  to  be  afraid,  I  should  have  taken  him 
for  a  mere  fool.  There  would  have  been  a  pair  of  us,  and 
I  should  have  been  at  my  wits'  end.  Now  it  is  certain 
that  we  shall  be  attacked.  But  they  may  come;  I  am 
ready. " 

Having  said  these  words  in  a  low  voice,  and  with  a 
triumphant  air,  the  old  soldier  rubbed  his  hands  and 
glanced  slyly  at  Marche-a-Terre.  Then  he  crossed  his 
arms  on  his  breast,  remained  in  the  middle  of  the  road 
between  his  two  favorite  officers,  and  waited  for  the 
event  of  his  dispositions.  Tranquil  at  last  as  to  the 
result  of  the  fight,  he  surveyed  his  soldiers  with  a  calm 
countenance. 

"There  will  be  a  row  in  a  minute,"  whispered  Beau- 
Pied:  "the  commandant  is  rubbing  his  hands." 

Such  a  critical  situation  as  that  in  which  Commandant 
Hulot  and  his  detachment  were  placed,  is  one  of  those 
where  life  is  so  literally  at  stake  that  men  of  energy 
make  it  a  point  of  honor  to  show  coolness  and  presence 
ot  mind.  At  such  moments  manhood  is  put  to  a  last 
proof.  So  the  commandant,  knowing  more  of  the  danger 


THE   AMBUSH.  37 

than  his  officers,  plumed  himself  all  the  more  on  appear- 
ing   the   most    tranquil.      By  turns  inspecting  Marche-a- 
Terre,  the  road,  and  the  woods,  he  awaited,  not  without 
anxiety,   the  sound  of  a  volley  from  the  Chouans,   who, 
he  doubted  not,  were  lurking  like  forest-demons  around 
him.      His  face  was  impassive.     When  all  the  soldiers' 
eyes  were  fixed  on  his,   he  slightly  wrinkled   his  brown 
cheeks  pitted  with  small-pox,  drew  up  the  right  side  of 
his  lip,  and  winked  hard,  producing  a  grimace  which  his 
men    regularly    understood    to    be    a    smile.      Then     he 
clapped  Gerard's  shoulder,   and  said,    "Now  that  we  are 
quiet,  what  were  you  going  to  say  to  me?" 
"What  new  crisis  is  upon  us,  commandant?" 
"The  thing  is  not  new,"  answered  he,    in  a  low  tone. 
"The    whole    of  Europe  is  against  us,   and  this  time  the 
cards  are  with  them.      While  our  Directors  are  squabbling 
among  themselves  like  horses  without  oats  in  a  stable, 
and  while  their  whole  administration  is  going  to  pieces, 
they  leave  the  army  without  supplies.      In  Italy  we  are 
simply  lost!     Yes,  my  friends,  we  have  evacuated  Mantua 
in  consequence  of  losses  on  the  Trebia,  and  Joubert  has 
just  lost  a  battle  at  Novi.      I  only  hope  Massena  may  be 
able   to  keep  the  passes  in  Switzerland    against   Suwar- 
row.      We   have    been    driven  in    on    the  Rhine,  and    the 
Directory  has   sent    Moreau   there.      Will    the    fellow  be 
able  to  hold  the  frontier?     Perhaps;    but  sooner  or  later 
the   coalition   must    crush   us,  and  the  only  general  who 
could     save    us    is — the    devil    knows    where — down     in 
Egypt.      Besides,   how  could  he  get  back?      England    is 
mistress  of  the  seas." 

"I  do  not  care  so  much  about  Bonaparte's  absence,  com- 
mandant," said  the  young  adjutant  Gerard,  in  whom  a 
careful  education  had  developed  a  naturally  strong 
understanding.  "Do  you  mean  that  the  Revolution  will 


30  THE    CHOUANS. 

be  arrested  in  its  course?  Ah  no!  we  are  not  only 
charged  with  the  duty  of  defending  the  frontiers  of 
France;  we  have  a  double  mission.  Are  we  not  bound  as 
well  to  keep  alive  the  genius  of  our  country,  the  noble 
principles  of  liberty  and  independence,  the  spirit  of 


human  reason  which  our  Assemblies  have  aroused,  and 
which  must  advance  from  time  to  time?  France  is  as  a 
traveler  commissioned  to  carry  a  torch:  she  holds  it  in 
one  hand,  and  defends  herself  with  the  other.  But  if 


THE   AMBUSH.  39 

your  news  is  true,  never  during  ten  years  have  more  folk 
anxious  to  blow  the  torch  out  thronged  around  us.  Our 
faith  and  our  country  both  must  be  near  perishing." 

"Alas!  'tis  true, "  sighed  Commandant  Hulot;  "our  pup- 
pets of  Directors  have  taken  good  care  to  quarrel  with 
all  the  men  who  could  steer  the  ship  of  state.  Berna- 
dotte,  Carnot,  all,  even  citizen  Talleyrand,  have  left  us. 
There  is  but  a  single  good  patriot  left — friend  Fouche, 
who  keeps  things  together  by  means  of  the  police.  That 
is  a  man  for  you!  It  was  he  who  warned  me  in  time  of 
this  rising — and  what  is  more,  I  am  sure  we  are  caught 
in  a  trap  of  some  sort." 

"Oh!"  said  Gerard,  "if  the  army  has  not  some  finger  in 
the  government,  these  attorney  fellows  will  put  us  in  a 
worse  case  than  before  the  Revolution.  How  can  such 
weasels  know  how  to  command?" 

"I  am  always  in  fear,"  said  Hulot,  "of  hearing  that 
they  are  parleying  with  the  Bourbons.  God's  thunder! 
if  they  came  to  terms,  we  should  be  in  a  pickle  here!  " 

"No,  no,  commandant,  it  will  not  come  to  that,"  said 
Gerard;  "the  army,  as  you  say,  will  make  itself  heard, 
and  unless  it  speaks  according  to  Pichegru's  dictionary, 
there  is  good  hope  that  we  shall  not  have  worked  and 
fought  ourselves  to  death  for  ten  years,  only  to  have 
planted  the  flax  ourselves,  and  let  others  spin  it." 

"Why,  yes!  "  said  the  commandant,  "we  have  not 
changed  our  coats  without  its  costing  us  something." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Captain  Merle,  "let  us  play  the  part 
of  good  patriots  still  here,  and  try  to  stop  communica- 
tions between  our  Chouans  and  La  Vendee.  For  if  they 
join,  and  England  lends  a  hand,  why,  then,  I  will  not 
answer  for  the  cap  of  the  Republic,  one  and  indivisible." 

At  this  point  the  owl's  hoot,  which  sounded  afar  off, 
interrupted  the  conversation.  The  commandant,  more 


40  THE   CHOUANS. 

anxious,  scanned  Marche-a-Terre  anew,  but  his  impassive 
countenance  gave  hardly  even  a  sign  of  life.  The  con- 
scripts, brought  up  by  an  officer,  stood  huddled  like  a 
herd  of  cattle  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  some  thirty 
paces  from  the  company  drawn  up  in  order  of  battle. 
Last  of  all,  ten  paces  further,  were  the  soldiers  and 
patriots  under  the  orders  of  Lieutenant  Lebrun.  The 
commandant  threw  a  glance  over  his  array,  resting  it 
finally  en  the  picket  which  he  had  posted  in  front.  Sat- 
isfied with  his  dispositions,  he  was  just  turning  round  to 
give  the  word  "March,"  when  he  caught  sight  of  the 
tricolor  cockades  of  the  two  soldiers  who  were  coming 
back  after  searching  the  woods  to  the  left.  Seeing  that 
the  scouts  on  the  right  had  not  returned,  he  thought  of 
waiting  for  them. 

"Perhaps  the  bomb  is  going  to  burst  there,"  he  said  to 
the  two  officers,  pointing  to  the  wood  where  his  forlorn 
hope  seemed  to  be  buried. 

While  the  two  scouts  made  a  kind  of  report  to  him, 
Hulot  took  his  eyes  off  Marche-a-Terre.  The  Chouan 
thereupon  set  to  whistling  sharply  in  such  a  fashion  as 
to  send  the  sound  to  a  prodigious  distance;  and  then, 
before  either  of  his  watchers  had  been  able  even  to  take 
aim  at  him,  he  dealt  them  blows  with  his  whip,  which 
stretched  them  on  the  foot-path.  At  the  same  moment 
cries,  or  rather  savage  howls,  surprised  the  Republicans: 
a  heavy  volley  coming  from  the  wood  at  the  top  of  the 
slope  where  the  Chouan  had  seated  himself,  laid  seven 
or  eight  soldiers  lo\v;  while  Marche-a-Terre,  at  whom 
half-a-dozen  useless  shots  were  fired,  disappeared  in  the 
thicket,  after  climbing  the  slope  like  a  wildcat.  As  he 
did  so  his  sii/>(>ts  dropped  in  the  ditch,  and  they  could 
easily  see  on  his  feet  the  stout  hobnailed  shoes  which 
were  usual lv  worn  bv  the  "King's  Huntsmen."  No 


THE    AMBUSH.  4! 

sooner  had  the  Chouans  given  tongue  than  the  whole  of 
the  conscripts  dashed  into  the  wood  to  the  right,  like  flocks 
of  birds  which  take  to  wing  on  the  approach  of  a  traveler. 

"Fire  on  the  rascals!  "  cried  the  commandant. 

The  company  fired,  but  the  conscripts  had  had  the 
address  to  put  themselves  in  safety  by  setting  each  man 
his  back  to  a  tree,  and  before  the  muskets  could  be 
reloaded  they  had  vanished. 

'Now  talk  of  recruiting  departmental  legions,  eh?"  said 
Hulot  to  Gerard.  "A  man  must  be  as  great  a  fool  as  a 
Directory  to  count  on  levies  from  such  a  country  as  this! 
The  Assembly  would  do  better  to  vote  us  less,  and  give 
us  more  in  uniforms,  money,  and  stores." 

"These  are  gentlemen  who  like  their  bannocks  better 
than  ammunition  bread,"  said  Beau-Pied,  the  wit  of  the 
company. 

As  he  spoke  hootings  and  shouts  of  derision  from  the 
Republican  troops  cried  shame  on  the  deserters;  but 
silence  fell  again  at  once,  as  the  soldiers  saw,  climbing 
painfully  down  the  slope,  the  two  light  infantry  men 
whom  the  commandant  had  sent  to  beat  the  wood  to  the 
right.  The  less  severely  wounded  of  the  two  was  sup- 
porting his  comrade,  whose  blood  poured  on  the  ground, 
and  the  two  poor  fellows  had  reached  the  middle  of  the 
descent  when  Marche-a-Terre  showed  his  hideous  face, 
and  took  such  good  aim  at  the  two  Blues  that  he  hit 
them  both  with  the  same  shot,  and  they  dropped  heavily 
into  the  ditch.  His  great  head  had  no  sooner  appeared 
than  thirty  barrels  were  raised,  but,  like  a  figure  in  a 
phantasmagoria,  he  had  already  disappeared  behind  the 
terrible  broom  tufts.  These  incidents,  which  take  so 
long  in  the  telling,  passed  in  a  moment,  and  then,  again 
in  a  moment,  the  patriots  and  the  soldiers  of  the  rear- 
guard effected  a  junction  with  the  rest  of  the  escort. 


42  THE    CHOUANS. 

"Forward!  "  cried  Hulot. 

The  company  made  its  way  quickly  to  the  lofty  and 
bare  spot  where  the  picket  had  been  posted.  There  the 
commandant  once  more  set  the  company  in  battle  array; 
but  he  could  see  no  further  sign  of  hostility  on  the 
Chouans'  part,  and  thought  that  the  deliverance  of  the 
conscripts  had  been  the  only  object  of  the  ambuscade. 

"I  can  tell  by  their  shouts,"  said  he  to  his  two  friends, 
"that  there  are  not  many  of  them.  Let  us  quicken  up. 
Perhaps  we  can  gain  Ern£e  without  having  them  upon 
us." 

The  words  were  heard  by  a  patriot  conscript,  who  left 
the  ranks  and  presented  himself  to  Hulot. 

"General,"  said  he,  "I  have  served  in  this  war  before 
as  a  counter-Chouan.  May  a  man  say  a  word  to  you?" 

'Tis  a  lawyer:  these  fellows  always  think  themselves 
in  court,"  whispered  the  commandant  into  Merle's  ear. 
"Well,  make  your  speech,"  said  he  to  the  young  man  of 
Fougeres. 

"Commandant,  the  Chouans  have  no  doubt  brought 
arms  for  the  new  recruits  they  have  just  gained.  Now, 
if  we  budge,  the)''  will  wait  for  us  at  every  corner  of  the 
wood  and  kill  'us  to  the  last  man  before  we  reach  Ern£e. 
We  must  make  a  speech,  as  you  say,  but  it  must  be  with 
cartridges.  During  the  skirmish,  which  will  last  longer 
than  you  think,  one  of  my  comrades  will  go  and  fetch 
the  National  Guard  and  the  Free  Companies  from 
Fougeres.  Though  we  are  only  conscripts,  you  shall  see 
then  whether  we  are  kites  and  crows  at  righting." 

"You  think  there  are  many  of  the  Chouans,   then?" 

"Look  for  yourself,  citizen  commandant." 

He  took  Hulot  to  a  spot  on  the  plateau  where  the 
road-gravel  had  been  disturbed  as  if  with  a  rake,  and 
then,  after  drawing  his  attention  to  this,  he  led  him 


THE    AMBUSH.  43 

some  way  in  front  to  a  by-path  where  they  saw  traces  of 
the  passage  of  no  small  number  of  men,  for  the  leaves 
were  trodden  right  into  the  beaten  soil. 

"These  are  the  Gars  of  Vitre,"  said  the  man  of  Fougeres. 
"They  have  started  to  join  the  men  of  Lower  Normandy." 

"What  is  your  name,  citizen?"  said  Hulot. 

"Gudin,  commandant." 

"Well,  Gudin,  I  make  you  corporal  of  your  townsfolk. 
You  seem  to  be  a  fellow  who  can  be  depended  on. 
Choose  for  yourself  one  of  your  comrades  to  send  to 
Fougeres.  And  you  yourself  stay  by  me.  First,  go  with 
your  requisitionaries  and  pick  up  the  knapsacks,  the 
guns,  and  the  uniforms  of  our  poor  comrades  whom  the 
brigands  have  knocked  over.  You  shall  not  stay  here  to 
stand  gunshot  without  returning  it." 

So  the  bold  men  of  Fougeres  went  to  strip  the  dead, 
and  the  whole  company  protected  them  by  pouring  a 
steady  fire  into  the  wood,  so  that  the  task  of  stripping 
was  successfully  performed  without  the  loss  of  a  single 
man. 

"These  Bretons,"  said  Hulot  to  Gerard,  "will  make 
famous  infantry  if  they  can  ever  make  up  their  minds  to 
the  pannikin.  "* 

Gudin' s  messenger  started  at  a  run  by  a  winding  path 
in  the  wood  to  the  left.  The  soldiers,  busy  in  seeing  to 
their  weapons,  made  ready  for  the  fight;  and  the  com- 
mandant, after  looking  them  over  smilingly,  took  his 
station  a  few  steps  in  front,  with  his  two  favorite  officers, 
and  waited  stubbornly  for  the  Chouans  to  attack.  There 
'was  again  silence  for  a  while,  but  it  did  not  last  long. 
Three  hundred  Chouans,  dressed  in  a  similar  fashion  to 


*  Gamelle,  the  joint  soup-plate  or  bowl  in  which  the  rations  of  several  French  sol- 
diers were  served,  and  which  has  something  of  the  traditional  sacredness  of  the 
Janissary  soup-kettle. — Translator's  Note. 


44  THE   CHOUANS. 

the  requisitionaries,  debouched  from  the  woods  to  the 
right,  and  occupied,  after  a  disorderly  fashion,  and  utter- 
ing shouts  which  were  true  wild-beast  howls,  the 
breadth  of  the  road  in  front  of  the  thin  line  of  Blues. 
The  commandant  drew  up  his  men  in  two  equal  divisions, 
each  ten  men  abreast,  placing  between  the  two  his  dozen 
requisitionaries  hastily  equipped  and  under  his  own  im- 
mediate command.  The  little  army  was  guarded  on  the 
wings  by  two  detachments,  each  twenty-five  men  strong, 
who  operated  on  the  two  sides  of  the  road  under  Gerard 
and  Merle,  and  whose  business  it  was  to  take  the  Chouans 
in  flank,  and  prevent  them  from  practicing  the  manoeuvre 
called  in  the  country  dialect  s* egailler — that  is  to  say, 
scattering  themselves  about  the  country,  and  each  man 
taking  up  his  own  position  so  as  best  to  shoot  at  the 
Blues  without  exposing  himself;  in  which  way  of  fight- 
ing the  Republican  troops  were  at  their  wits'  end  where 
to  have  their  enemies. 

These  dispositions,  which  the  commandant  ordered 
with  the  promptitude  suited  to  the  circumstances, 
inspired  the  soldiers  with  the  same  confidence  that  he 
himself  felt,  and  the  whole  body  silently  marched  on 
the  Chouans.  At  the  end  of  a  few  minutes,  the  interval 
required  to  cover  the  space  between  the  two  forces, 
a  volley  at  point-blank  laid  many  low  on  both  sides; 
but  at  the  same  moment  the  Republican  wings,  against 
which  the  Chouans  had  made  no  counter-movement, 
came  up  on  the  flank,  and  by  a  close  and  lively  fire 
spread  death  and  disorder  amid  the  enemy  to  an  extent 
which  almost  equalized  the  number  of  the  two  bodies. 
But  there  was  in  the  character  of  the  Chouans  a  stub- 
born courage  which  would  stand  any  trial:  they  budged 
not  a  step,  their  losses  did  not  make  them  waver;  they 
closed  up  their  broken  ranks,  and  strove  to  surround  the 


THE    AMBUSH.  45 

dark  and  steady  handful  of  Blues,  which  occupied  so 
little  space  that  it  looked  like  a  queen  bee  in  the  midst 
of  a  swarm.  Then  began  one  of  those  appalling  engage- 
ments in  which  the  sound  of  gunshot,  scarcely  heard  at 
all,  is  replaced  by  the  clatter  of  a  struggle  with  the  coid 
steel,  in  which  men  fight  hand  to  hand  and  in  which 
with  equal  courage  the  victory  is  decided  simply  by 
numbers.  The  Chouans  would  have  carried  the  'day  at 
once  if  the  wings  under  Merle  and  Gerard  had  not  suc- 
ceeded in  raking  their  rear  with  more  than  one  volley. 
The  Blues  who  composed  these  wings  ought  to  have 
held  their  position  and  continued  to  mark  down  their 
formidable  adversaries;  but,  heated  by  the  sight  of  the 
dangers  which  the  brave  detachment  ran,  completely 
surrounded  as  it  was  by  the  King's  Huntsmen,  they 
flung  themselves  madly  on  the  road,  bayonet  in  hand, 
and  for  a  moment  redressed  the  balance.  Both  sides 
then  gave  themselves  up  to  the  furious  zeal,  kindled  by 
a  wild  and  savage  party  spirit,  which  made  this  war 
unique.  Each  man,  heedful  of  his  own  danger,  kept 
absolute  silence;  and  the  whole  scene  had  the  grisly  cool- 
ness of  death  itself.  Across  the  silence,  broken  only  by 
the  clash  of  arms  and  the  crunching  of  the  gravel,  there 
came  nothing  else  but  the  dull,  heavy  groans  of  those 
who  fell  to  earth,  dying,  or  wounded  to  the  death.  In 
the  midst  of  the  Republicans  the  requisitionaries  de- 
fended the  commandant,  who  was  busied  in  giving  coun- 
sel and  command  in  all  directions,  so  stoutly  that  more 
than  once  the  regulars  cried  out,  "Well  done,  recruits!  " 
But  Hulot,  cool  and  watchful  of  everything,  soon  dis- 
tinguished among  the  Chouans  a  man  who,  surrounded 
like  himself  by  a  few  picked  followers,  seemed  to  be 
their  leader.  He  thought  it  imperative  that  he  should 
take  a  good  look  at  the  officer;  but  though  again  and 


46  THE    CHOUANS. 

again  he  tried  in  vain  to  note  his  features,  the  view  was 
always,  barred  by  red  bonnets  or  flapping  hats.  He  could 
but  perceive  Marche-a-Terre,  who,  keeping  by  the  side  of 
his  chief,  repeated  his  orders  in  a  harsh  tone,  and  whose 
rifle  was  unceasingly  active.  The  commandant  lost  his 
temper  at  this  continual  disappointment,  and,  drawing 
his  sword  and  cheering  on  the  requisitionaries,  charged 
the  thickest  of  the  Chouans  so  furiously  that  he  broke 
through  them,  and  was  able  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
chief,  whose  face  was  unluckily  quite  hidden  by  a  huge 
flapped  hat  bearing  the  white  cockade.  But  the  stranger, 
startled  by  the  boldness  of  the  attack,  stepped  back- 
wards, throwing  up  his  hat  sharply,  and  Hulot  had  the 
opportunity  of  taking  brief  stock  of  him.  The  young 
leader,  whom  Hulot  could  not  judge  to  be  more  than 
five-and-twenty,  wore  a  green  cloth  shooting-coat,  and 
pistols  were  thrust  in  his  white  sash;  his  stout  shoes 
were  hobnailed  like  those  of  the  Chouans,  while  sporting 
gaiters  rising  to  his  knees,  and  joining  breeches  of  very 
coarse  duck,  completed  a  costume  which  revealed  a 
shape  of  moderate  height,  but  slender  and  well  propor- 
tioned. Enraged  at  seeing  the  Blues  so  near  him,  he 
slouched  his  hat  and  made  at  them;  but  he  was  immedi- 
ately surrounded  by  Marche-a-Terre  and  some  other 
Chouans  alarmed  for  his  safety.  Yet  Hulot  thought  he 
could  see  in  the  intervals  left  by  the  heads  of  those  who 
thronged  round  the  young  man  a  broad  red  ribbon  on  a 
half-opened  waistcoat.  The  commandant's  eyes  were 
attracted  for  a  moment  by  this  Royalist  decoration,  then 
entirely  forgotten,  but  shifted  suddenly  to  the  face, 
which  he  lost  from  sight  almost  as  soon,  being  driven  by 
tiie  course  of  the  fight  to  attend  to  the  safety  and  the 
movements  of  his  little  force.  He  thus  saw  but  for  a 
moment  a  pair  of  sparkling  eyes,  whose  color  he  did  not 


THE    AMBUSH.  47 

mark,  fair  hair,  and  features  finely  cut  enough,  but  sun- 
burnt. He  was,  however,  particularly  struck  by  the 
gleam  of  a  bare  neck  whose  whiteness  was  enhanced  by 
a  black  cravat,  loose,  and  carelessly  tied.  The  fiery 
and  spirited  gestures  of  the  young  chief  were  soldierly 
enough,  after  the  fashion  of  those  who  like  to  see  a  cer- 
tain conventional  romance  in  a  fight.  His  hand,  care- 
fully gloved,  flourished  a  sword-blade  that  flashed  in 
the  sun.  His  bearing  displayed  at  once  elegance  and 
strength;  and  his  somewhat  deliberate  excitement,  set 
off  as  it  was  by  the  charms  of  youth  and  by  graceful 
manners,  made  the  emigrant  leader  a  pleasing  type  of  the 
French  noblesse,  and  a  sharp  contrast  with  Hulot,  who,  at 
a  pace  or  two  from  him,  personified  in  his  turn  the  vig- 
orous Republic  for  which  the  old  soldier  fought,  and 
whose  stern  face  and  blue  uniform,  faced  with  shabby 
red,  the  epaulets  tarnished  and  hanging  back  over  his 
shoulders,  depicted  not  ill  his  character  and  his  hard- 
ships. 

The  young  man's  air  and  his  not  ungraceful  affectation 
did  not  escape  Hulot,  who  shouted,  as  he  tried  to  get  at 
him:  "Come,  you  opera-dancer  there!  come  along  and 
be  thrashed!  " 

The  royal  chief,  annoyed  at  his  momentary  check, 
rushed  forward  desperately;  and  no  sooner  had  his  men 
seen  him  thus  risk  himself,  than-  they  all  flung  them- 
selves on  the  Blues. 

But  suddenly  a  clear,  sweet  voice  made  itself  heard 
above  the  battle,  "  'Twas  here  that  sainted  Lescure  died: 
will  you  not  avenge  him?"  And  at  these  words  of  enchant- 
ment the  exertions  of  the  Chouans  became  so  terrible 
that  the  Republican  soldiers  had  the  greatest  trouble 
in  holding  their  ground  without  breaking  ranks. 

"Had  he  not  been  a  youngster,"  said  Hulot  to  himself, 


48  THE    CHOUANS. 

as  he  retreated  step  by  step,  "we  should  not  have  been 
attacked.  Who  ever  heard  of  Chouans  fighting  a  pitched 
battle?  But  so  much  the  better:  we  shall  not  be  killed 
like  dogs  along  the  road-side."  Then  raising  his  voice 
that  it  might  up-echo  along  the  woods,  "Wake  up,  chil- 
dren!" he  cried;  "shall  we  let  ourselves  be  bothered  by 
brigands?" 

The  term  by  which  we  have  replaced  the  word  which 
the  valiant  commandant  actually  used  is  but  a  weak 
equivalent;  but  old  hands  will  know  how  to  restore  the 
true  phrase,  which  certainly  has  a  more  soldierly  flavor. 

"Gerard!  Merle!"  continued  the  commandant,  "draw 
off  your  men!  form  them  in  column!  fall  back!  fire  on 
the  dogs,  and  let  us  have  done  with  them!" 

But  Hulot's  order  was  not  easy  to  execute;  for,  as  he 
heard  his  adversary's  voice,  the  young  chief  cried:  "By 
Saint  Anne  of  Auray!  hold  them  fast!  scatter  yourselves, 
my  Gars.'" 

And  when  the  two  wings  commanded  by  Merle  and 
Gerard  left  the  main  battle,  each  handful  was  followed 
by  a  determined  band  of  Chouans  much  superior  in  num- 
bers, and  the  stout  old  goatskins  surrounded  the  regulars 
on  all  sides,  shouting  anew  their  sinister  and  bestial 
howls. 

"Shut  up,  gentlemen,  please,"  said  Beau-Pied;  "we 
can't  hear  ourselves  being  killed." 

The  joke  revived  the  spirits  of  the  Blues.  Instead  of 
fighting  in  a  single  position,  the  Republicans  continued 
their  defense  at  three  different  spots  on  the  plateau  of 
the  Pilgrim,  and  all  its  valleys,  lately  so  peaceful,  re- 
echoed with  the  fusillade.  Victory  might  have  remained 
undecided  for  hours,  till  the  fight  ceased  for  want  of 
lighters,  for  Blues  and  Chouans  fought  with  equal  bravery 
and  with  rage  constantly  increasing  on  both  sides,  when 


THE    AMBUSH.  49 

the  faint  beat  of  a  drum  was  heard  afar  off,  and  it  was 
clear,  from  the  direction  of  the  sound,  that  the  force 
which  it  heralded  was  crossing  the  valley  of  the 
Couesnon. 

'  'Tis  the  National  Guard  of  Fougeres!  "   cried  Gtidin, 
loudly;   "Vannier  must  have  met  them." 

At  this  cry,  which  reached  the  ears  of  the  young  Chouan 
chief  and  his  fierce  aide-de-camp,  the  Royalists  made  a 
backward  movement,  but  it  was  promptly  checked  by  a 
roar,  as  of  a  wild  beast,  from  Marche-a-Terre.  After  a 
word  of  command  or  two  given  by  the  leader  in  a  low 
voice  and  transmitted  in  Breton  by  Marche-a-Terre  to  the 
Chouans,  they  arranged  their  retreat  with  a  skill  which 
astonished  the  Republicans,  and  even  the  commandant. 
At  the  first  word  those  in  best  condition  fell  into  line 
and  showed  a  stout  front,  behind  which  the  wounded 
men  and  the  rest  retired  to  load.  Then  all  at  once,  with 
the  same  agility  of  which  Marche-a-Terre  had  before  set 
the  example,  the  wounded  scaled  the  height  which 
bounded  the  road  on  the  right,  and  were  followed  by 
half  the  remaining  Chouans,  who,  also  climbing  it 
smartly,  manned  the  summit  so  as  to  show  the  Blues 
nothing  but  their  bold  heads.  Once  there,  they  took  the 
trees  for  breastworks,  and  leveled  their  guns  at  the  rem- 
nant of  the  escort,  who,  on  Hulot's  repeated  orders,  had 
dressed  their  ranks  quickly  so  as  to  show  on  the  road 
itself,  a  front  not  less  than  that  of  the  Chouans  still 
occupying  it.  These  latter  fell  back  slowly  and  fought 
every  inch  of  ground,  shifting  so  as  to  put  themselves 
under  their  comrades'  fire.  As  soon  as  they  had  reached 
the  ditch,  they  in  their  turn  escaladed  the  slope  whose 
top  their  fellows  held,  and  joined  them  after  suffering 
without  flinching  the  fire  of  the  Republicans,  who  were 
lucky  enough  to  fill  the  ditch  with  dead,  though  the  men 
4 


SO  THR 

on  the  toq  of  the  scrap  replied  with  a  volley  quit  as 
deadly.  At  this  moment  the  Fougeres  National  Guard 
came  up  at  a  run  to  the  battle-field,  and  its  arrival 
finished  the  business.  The  National  Guards  and  some 
excited  regulars  were  already  crossing  the  foot-path  to 
plunge  into  the  woods,  when  the  commandant's  martial 
voice  cried  to  them:  "Do  you  want  to  have  your  throats 
cut  in  there?" 

So  they  rejoined  the  Republican  force  which  had  held 
the  field,  but  not  without  heavy  losses.  All  the  old  hats 
were  stuck  on  the  bayonet  points,  the  guns  were  thrust 
aloft,  and  the  soldiers  cried  with  one  voice  and  twice 
over,  "Long  live  the  Republic!".  Even  the  wounded  sit- 
ting on  the  roadsides  shared  the  enthusiasm,  and  Hulot 
squeezed  Gerard's  hand,  saying:  "Eh!  these  are  some- 
thing like  fellows!  " 

Merle  was  ordered  to  bury  the  dead  in  a  ravine  by  the 
roadside;  while  other  soldiers  busied  themselves  with 
the  wounded.  Carts  and  horses  were  requisitioned  from 
the  farms  round,  and  the  disabled  comrades  were  softly 
bedded  in  them  on  the  strippings  of  the  dead.  But 
before  departing,  the  Fougeres  National  Guard  handed 
over  to  Hulot  a  dangerously  wounded  Chouan.  They 
had  taken  him  prisoner  at  the  foot  of  the  steep  slope  by 
which  his  comrades  had  escaped,  and  on  which  he  had 
slipped,  betrayed  by  his  flagging  strength. 

"Thanks  for  your  prompt  action,  citizens,"  said  the 
commandant.  "God's  thunder!  but  for  you  we  should 
have  had  a  bad  time  of  it.  Take  care  of  yourselves: 
the  war  has  begun.  Farewell,  my  brave  fellows!  "  Then 
Hulot  turned  to  the  prisoner.  "What  is  your  general' 
name?  "  asked  he. 

"The  Gars. " 

"Who  is  that?  Marche-a-Terre? " 


THE    AMBUSH,  51 

"No!    the  Gars. " 

"Where  did  the  Gars  come  from?" 

At  this  question  the  King's  Huntsman,  his  rough,  fierce 
face  stricken  with  pain,  kept  silence,  told  his  beads,  and 
began  to  say  prayers. 

"Of  course  the  Gars  is  the  young  ci-devant  with  the 
black  cravat j  he  was  sent  by  the  tyrant  and  his  allies 
Pitt  and  Cobourg?" 

But  at  these  words  the  Chouan,  less  well  informed  than 
the  commandant,  raised  his  head  proudly:  "He  was  sent 
by  God  and  the  King!  " 

He  said  the  words  with  an  energy  which  exhausted  his 
small  remaining  strength.  The  commandant  saw  that  it 
was  almost  impossible  to  extract  intelligence  from  a  dying 
man,  whose  whole  bearing  showed  his  blind  fanaticism, 
and  turned  his  head  aside  with  a  frown.  Two  soldiers, 
friends  of  those  whom  Marche-a-Terre  had  so  brutally 
dispatched  with  his  whip  on  the  side  of  the  road  (for 
indeed  they  lay  dead  there),  stepped  back  a  little,  took 
aim  at  the  Chouan,  whose  steady  eyes  fell  not  before 
the  leveled  barrels,  fired  point-blank  at  him,  and  he  fell. 
But  when  they  drew  near  to  strip  the  corpse,  he  mustered 
strength  to  cry  once  more  and  loudly,  "Long  live  the 
King!  " 

"Oh,  yes,  sly  dog!  "  said  Clef-des-Cceurs,  "go  and  eat 
your  bannocks  at  your  good  Virgin's  table.  To  think  of 
his  shouting  'Long  live  the  tyrant! '  in  our  faces  when  we 
thought  him  done  for!  " 

"Here,  commandant,"  said  Beau-Pied,  "here  are  the 
brigand's  papers." 

"Hullo!  "  cried  Clef-des-Cceurs  again,  "do  come  and 
look  at  this  soldier  of  God  with  his  stomach  painted!  " 

Hulot  and  some  of  the  men  crowded  round  the  Chouan' s 
body,  now  quite  naked,  and  perceived  on  his  breast  a 


52  THE   CHOUANS. 

kind  of  bluish  tattoo-mark  representing  a  burning  heart, 
the  mark  of  initiation  of  the  Brotherhood  of  the  Sacred 
Heart.  Below  the  design  Hulot  could  decipher  the 
words  "Marie  Lambrequin,"  no  doubt  the  Chouan's 
name.  "You  see  that,  Clef-des-Cceurs?"  said  Beau-Pied. 
"Well,  you  may  guess  for  a  month  of  Sundays  before  you 
find  out  the  use  of  this  accoutrement." 

"What  do  I  know  about  the  Pope's  uniforms?"  replied 
Clef-des-Coeurs. 

"Wretched  pad-the-hoof  that  you  are!  "  retorted  Beau- 
pied;  "will  you  never  learn?  don't  you  see  that  they 
have  promised  the  fellow  resurrection,  and  that  he  has 
painted  his  belly  that  he  may  know  himself  again?" 

At  this  sally,  which  had  a  certain  ground  of  fact, 
Hulot  himself  could  not  help  joining  in  the  general 
laughter.  By  this  time  Merle  had  finished  burying  the 
dead,  and  the  wounded  had  been,  as  best  could  be  done, 
packed  in  two  wagons  by  their  comrades.  The  rest  of 
the  soldiers,  forming  without  orders  a  double  file  on  each 
side  of  the  improvised  ambulances,  made  their  way- 
down  the  side  of  the  hill  which  faces  Maine,  anJ  from 
which  is  seen  the  valley  of  the  Pilgrim,  a  rival  to  that 
of  the  Couesnon  in  beauty.  Hulot,  with  his  two  friends 
Merle  and  Gerard,  followed  his  soldiers  at  an  easy  pace, 
hoping  to  gain  Ernee,  where  his  wounded  could  be 
looked  after  without  further  mishap.  The  fight,  though 
almost  forgotten  among  the  mightier  events  which  were 
then  beginning  in  France,  took  its  name  from  the  place 
where  it  had  occurred,  and  attracted  some  attention,  if 
not  elsewhere,  in  the  West,  whose  inhabitants,  noting 
with  care  this  new  outbreak  of  hostilities,  observed  a 
change  in  the  way  in  which  the  Chouans  opened  the  new 
war.  Formerly  they  would  never  have  thought  of  attack- 
ing detachments  of  such  strength.  Hulot  conjectured 


THE    AMBUSH. 


53 


that  the  young  Royalist  he  had  seen  must  be  the  Gars, 
the  new  general  sent  to  France  by  the  Royal  P'amily,  who, 
after  the  fashion  usual  with  the  Royalist  chiefs,  con- 
cealed his  style  and  title  under  one  of  the  nicknames 
called  noms  de  guerre.  The  fact 
made  the  commandant  not  less 
thoughtful  after  his  dearly-won 
victory  than  at  the  moment  when 


he  suspected  the 
ambuscade.  H  e 
kept  turning  back 
to  look  at  the  sum- 
mit of  the  Pilgrim 
which  he  was  leav- 
ing behind,  and 
whence  there  still 
came  at  intervals 
the  muffled  sound 
of  the  drums  of  the 

National   Guard,  who  were  descending  the  valley  of  the 

Couesnon  just  as  the  Blues  were  descending  that  of  the 

Pilgrim. 

"Can    either    of    you,"    he    said    suddenly   to    his    two 

friends,    "guess   the    Chouans'    motive    in    attacking   us? 


54  THE   CHOUANS. 

They  are  business-like  folk  in  dealing  with  gunshots, 
and  I  cannot  see  what  they  had  to  gain  in  this  particular 
transaction.  They  must  have  lost  at  least  a  hundred 
men;  and  we,"  he  added,  hitching  his  right  cheek  and 
winking  by  way  of  a  smile,  "have  not  lost  sixty.  God's 
thunder!  I  do  not  see  their  calculation.  The  rascals 
need  not  have  attacked  us  unless  they  liked:  we  should 
have  gone  along  as  quietly  as  a  mail-bag,  and  I  don't  see 
what  good  it  did  them  to  make  holes  in  our  poor  fellows." 
And  he  pointed  sadly  enough  at  the  two  wagon-loads  of 
wounded.  "Of  course,"  he  added,  "it  may  have  been 
mere  politeness — a  kind  of  'good  day  to  you!'  ' 

"But,  commandant,  they  carried  off  our  hundred  and 
fifty  recruits,"  answered  Merle. 

"The  conscripts  might  have  hopped  into  the  woods 
like  frogs  for  all  the  trouble  we  should  have  taken  to 
catch  them,"  said  Hulot,  "especially  after  the  first 
volley;  "  and  he  repeated,  "No!  no!  there  is  something 
behind."  Then,  with  yet  another  turn  towards  the  hill, 
"There!"  he  cried,  "look!" 

Although  the  officers  were  now  some  way  from  the  fatal 
plateau,  they  could  easily  distinguish  Marche-a-Terre 
and  some  Chouans  who  had  occupied  it  afresh. 

"Quick  march!"  cried  Hulot  to  his  men;  "stir  your 
stumps,  and  wake  up  Shanks  his  mare!  Are  your  legs 
frozen?  have  they  turned  Pitt-and-Cobourg  men?" 

The  little  force  began  to  move  briskly  at  these  words, 
and  the  commandant  continued  to  the  two  officers:  "As 
for  this  riddle,  friends,  which  I  can't  make  out,  God 
grant  the  answer  be  not  given  in  musket  language  at 
Ernee.  I  am  much  afraid  of  hearing  that  the  communi- 
cation with  Mayenne  has  been  cut  again  by  the  King's 
subjects." 

But    the   problem  which  curled  Commafidant   Hulot' s 


THE   AMBUSH.  55 

moustache  was  at  the  same  time  causing  quite  as  lively 
anxiety  to  the  folk  he  had  seen  on  the  top  of  the  Pilgrim. 
As  soon  as  the  drums  of  the  National  Guard  died  away, 
and  the  Blues  were  seen  to  have  reached  the  bottom  of 
the  long  descent,  Marche-a-Terre  sent  the  owl's  cry 
cheerily  out,  and  the  Chouans  reappeared,  but  in  smaller 
numbers.  No  doubt,  not  a  few  were  busy  in  looking  to 
the  wounded  in  the  village  of  the  Pilgrim,  which  lay  on 
the  face  of  the  hill  looking  towards  the  Couesnon.  Two 
or  three  leaders  of  the  "King's  Huntsmen"  joined 
Marche-a-Terre,  while,  a  pace  or  two  away,  the  young 
nobleman,  seated  on  a  granite  boulder,  seemed  plunged 
in  various  thoughts,  excited  by  the  difficulty  which  his 
enterprise  already  presented.  Marche-a-Terre  made  a 
screen  with  his  hand  to  shade  his  sight  from  the  sun's 
glare,  and  gazed  in  a  melancholy  fashion  at  the  road 
which  the  Republicans  were  following  across  the  Pilgrim 
valley.  His  eyes,  small,  black,  and  piercing,  seemed  try- 
ing to  discover  what  was  passing  where  the  road  began 
to  climb  again  on  the  horizon  of  the  valley. 

"The  Blues  will  intercept  the  mail!"  said,  savagely, 
one  of  the  chiefs  who  was  nearest  Marche-a-Terre. 

"In  the  name  of  Saint  Anne  of  Auray, "  said  another, 
"why  did  you  make  us  fight?  To  save  your  own  skin?" 

Marche-a-Terre  cast  a  venomous  look  at  the  speaker, 
and  slapped  the  butt  of  his  heavy  rifle  on  the  ground. 

"Am  I  general?"  he  asked.  Then,  after  a  pause,  "If 
you  had  all  fought  as  I  did,  not  one  of  those  Blues,"  and 
he  pointed  to  the  remnant  of  Hulot's  detachment,  "would 
have  escaped,  and  the  coach  might  have  been  here  now." 

"Do  you  think,"  said  a  third,  "that  they  would  have 
even  thought  of  escorting  or  stopping  it,  if  we  had  let 
them  pass  quietly?  You  wanted  to  save  your  cursed 
skin,  which  was  in  danger  because  you  did  not  think  the 


56  THE    CHOUANS. 

Blues  were  on  the  road.  To  save  his  bacon,"  continued 
the  speaker,  turning  to  the  others,  "he  bled  us,  and  we 
shall  lose  twenty  thousand  francs  of  good  money  as 
well!  " 

"Bacon  yourself!"  cried  Marche-a-Terre,  falling  back, 
and  leveling  his  rifle  at  his  foe;  "you  do  not  hate  the 
Blues;  you  only  love  the  money.  You  shall  die  and  be 
damned,  you  scoundrel!  For  you  have  not  been  to  con- 
fession and  communion  this  whole  year!  " 

The  insult  turned  the  Chouan  pale,  and  he  took  aim 
at  Marche-a-Terre,  a  dull  growl  starting  from  his  throat 
as  he  did  so;  but  the  young  chief  rushed  between  them, 
struck  down  their  weapons  with  the  barrel  of  his  own 
rifle,  and  then  asked  for  an  explanation  of  the  quarrel; 
for  the  conversation  had  been  in  Breton,  with  which  he 
was  not  very  familiar. 

"My  Lord  Marquis,"  said  Marche-a-Terre,  when  he  had 
told  him,  "it  is  all  the  greater  shame  to  find  fault  with 
me  in  that  I  left  behind  Pille-Miche,  who  will  perhaps 
be  able  to  save  the  coach  from  the  thieves'  claws  after 
all,"  and  he  pointed  to  the  Blues,  who,  in  the  eyes  of 
these  faithful  servants  of  the  throne  and  altar,  were  all 
assassins  of  Louis  XVI.,  and  all  robbers  as  well. 

"What!  "  cried  the  young  man,  angrily,  "you  are  linger- 
ing here  to  stop  a  coach  like  cowards,  when  you  might 
have  won  the  victory  in  the  first  fight  where  I  have  led 
you?  How  are  we  to  triumph  with  such  objects  as 
these?  Are  the  defenders  of  God  and  the  King  common 
marauders?  By  Saint  Anne  of  Auray!  it  is  the  Repub- 
lic and  not  the  mail  that  we  make  war  on.  Hencefor- 
ward, a  man  who  is  guilty  of  such  shameful  designs  shall 
be  deprived  of  absolution,  and  shall  not  share  in  the 
honors  reserved  for  the  King's  brave  servants." 

A  low  growl   rose  from  the  midst  of   the  band,  and  it 


THE   AMBUSH. 


57 


was  easy  to  see  that  the  chief's  new-born  authority,  always 
difficult  to  establish  amongst  such  undisciplined  gangs, 
was  likely  to  be  compromised.  The  young  man,  who  had 
not  missed  this  demonstration,  was  searching  for  some 
means  of  saving  the  credit  of  his  position,  when  the  silence 
was  broken  by  a  horse's  trot,  and  all  heads  turned  in  the 
supposed  direction  of  the  new-comer.  It  was  a  young 


lady  mounted  sideways  on  a  small  Breton  pony.  She 
broke  into  a  gallop,  in  order  to  reach  the  group  of  Chouans 
more  quickly,  when  she  saw  the  young  man  in  their 
midst. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  said  she,  looking  from  men  to 
leader  by  turns. 

"Can  you  believe  it,  madame?"  said  he,  "they  are  lying 


58  THE    CHOUANS. 

in  wait  for  the  mail  from  Mayenne,  with  ihe  intention  of 
plundering  it,  when  we  have  just  fought  a  skirmish  to 
deliver  the  Gars  of  Fougeres,  with  heavy  loss,  but  with- 
out having  been  able  to  destroy  the  Blues!  " 

"Well!  what  harm  is  there  in  that?"  said  the  lady, 
whose  woman's  tact  showed  her  at  once  the  secret  of  the 
situation.  "You  have  lost  men;  we  can  always  get 
plenty  more.  The  mail  brings  money,  and  we  can  never 
have  enough  of  that.  We  will  bury  our  brave  fellows 
who  are  dead,  and  who  will  go  to  heaven;  and  we  will 
take  the  money  to  put  into  the  pockets  of  the  other  brave 
fellows  who  are  alive.  What  is  the  difficulty?" 

Unanimous  smiles  showed  the  approval  with  which  the 
Chouans  heard  this  speech. 

"Is  there  nothing  in  it  that  brings  a  blush  to  your 
cheek?"  asked  the  young  man,  in  a  low  tone.  "Are  you 
so  short  of  money  that  you  must  take  it  on  the  high- 
way?" 

"I  want  it  so  much,  marquis,  that  I  would  pledge  my 
heart  for  it."  said  she,  with  a  coquettish  smile,  "if  it 
were  not  in  pawn  already.  But  where  have  you  been 
that  you  think  you  can  employ  Chouans  without  giving 
them  plunder  now  and  then  at  the  Blues'  expense?  Don't 
you  know  the  proverb  'thievish  as  an  owl?'  Remember 
what  a  Chouan  is:  besides,"  added  she,  louder,  "is  not 
the  action  just?  have  not  the  Blues  taken  all  the  Church's 
q;oods,  and  all  our  own?" 

A  second  approving  murmur,  very  different  from  the 
irrowl  with  which  the  Chouans  had  answered  the  mar- 
']tiis.  greeted  these  words. 

The  young  man's  brow  darkened,  and,  taking  the  lady 
aside,  he  said  to  her,  with  the  sprightly  vexation  of  a 
well-bred  man.  "Are  those  persons  coming  to  the  Vivetiere 
on  the  appointed  day?" 


THE    AMBUSH.  59 

"Yes,"  said  she,  "all  of  them;  L'Intime,  Grand- 
Jacques,  and  perhaps  Ferdinand." 

"Then  allow  me  to  return  thither,  for  I  cannot  sanction 
such  brigandage  as  this  by  my  presence.  Yes,  madame, 
I  use  the  word  brigandage.  There  is  some  nobility  in 
being  robbed;  but — 

"Very  well,"  said  she,  cutting  him  short,  "I  shall  have 
your  share,  and  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  handing  it 
over  to  me.  The  additional  prize-money  will  suit  me 
capitally.  My  mother  has  been  so  slow  in  sending  me 
supplies,  that  I  am  nearly  at  my  wits'  end." 

"Farewell!  "  cried  the  marquis,  and  he  was  on  the  point 
of  vanishing.  But  the  young  lady  followed  him  briskly. 
"Why  will  you  not  stay  with  me?"  she  said,  with  the 
glance,  half  imperious,  half  caressing,  by  which  women 
who  have  a  hold  over  a  man  know  how  to  express  their  will. 

"Are  you  not  going  to  rob  a  coach?" 

"Rob!  "  replied  she,  "what  a  word!  Allow  me  to  explain 
to  you — 

"No;  you  shall  explain  nothing,"  he  said,  taking  her 
hands  and  kissing  them  with  the  easy  gallantry  of  a 
courtier.  And  then,  after  a  pause,  "Listen:  if  I  stay  here 
while  the  mail  is  stopped,  our  fellows  will  kill  me,  for 
I  shall—" 

"No,  you  would  not  attempt  to  kill  them,"  she  said, 
quickly,  "for  they  would  bind  you  hand  and  foot  with 
every  respect  due  to  your  rank;  and  when  they  had 
levied  on  the  Republicans  the  contribution  necessary  for 
their  equipment,  their  food,  and  their  powder,  they 
would  once  more  yield  you  implicit  obedience." 

"And  yet  you  would  have  me  command  here?  If  my 
life  is  necessary  to  fight  for  the  cause,  let  me  at  least 
keep  the  honor  of  my  authority  safe.  If  I  retire,  I  can 
ignore  this  base  act.  I  will  come  back  and  join  you." 


60  THE    CHOUANS. 

And  he  made  off  swiftly,  the  young  lady  listening  to 
his  footfalls  with  obvious  vexation.  When  the  rustle  of 
the  dry  leaves  gradually  died  away,  she  remained  in  per- 
plexity for  a  moment.  Then  she  quickly  made  her  way 
back  to  the  Chouans,  and  allowed  a  brusque  expression 
of  contempt  to  escape  her,  saying  to  Marche-a-Terre, 
who  helped  her  to  dismount,  "That  young  gentleman 
would  like  to  carry  on  war  against  the  Republic  with  all 
the  regular  forms.  Ah  well!  he  will  change  his  mind  in 
a  day  or  two.  But  how  he  has  treated  me!  "  she  added, 
to  herself,  after  a  pause.  She  then  took  her  seat  on  the 
rock  which  had  just  before  served  the  marquis  as  a  chair, 
and  silently  awaited  the  arrival  of  the  coach.  She  was 
not  one  of  the  least  singular  symptoms  of  the  time,  this 
young  woman  of  noble  birth,  thrown  by  the  strength  of 
her  passions  into  the  struggle  of  monarchy  against  the 
spirit  of  the  age,  and  driven  by  her  sentiments  into 
actions  for  which  she  was  in  a  way  irresponsible;  as, 
indeed,  were  many  others  who  were  carried  away  by  an 
excitement  not  seldom  productive  of  great  deeds.  Like 
her,  many  other  women  played,  in  these  disturbed 
times,  the  parts  of  heroines  or  of  criminals.  The  Royal- 
ist cause  had  no  more  devoted,  no  more  active  servants 
than  these  ladies;  but 'no  virago  of  the  party  paid  the 
penalty  of  excess  of  zeal,  or  suffered  the  pain  of  situa- 
tions forbidden  to  the  sex,  more  bitterly  than  this  lady, 
as,  sitting  on  her  roadside  boulder,  she  was  forced  to  ac- 
cord admiration  to  the  noble  disdain  and  the  inflexible 
integrity  of  the  young  chief.  By  degrees  she  fell  into  a 
deep  reverie,  and  many  sad  memories  made  her  long  for 
the  innocence  of  her  early  years,  and  regret  that  she  had 
not  fallen  a  victim  to  that  Revolution  whose  victorious 
progress  hands  so  weak  as  hers  could  not  arrest. 

The    coach   which   had    partly    been    the    cause   of    the 


THE   AMBUSH.  6l 

Chouan  onslaught  had  left  the  little  town  of  Ernee  a  few 
moments  before  the  skirmish  begun.  Nothing  better 
paints  the  condition  of  a  country  than  the  state  of  its 
social  "plant,"  and  thus  considered,  this  vehicle  itself 
deserves  honorable  mention.  Even  the  Revolution  had 
not  been  able  to  abolish  it;  indeed,  it  runs  at  this  very 
day.*  When  Turgot  bought  up  the  charter  which  a 
compan)'  had  obtained  under  Louis  XIV.  for  the  exclu- 
sive right  of  serving  passenger  traffic  all  over  the  king- 
dom, and  when  he  established  the  new  enterprise  of  the 
so-called  ti/rgotines,  the  old  coaches  of  Messieurs  de 
Yousges,  Chanteclaire,  and  the  widow  Lacombe  were  ban- 
ished to  the  provinces.  One  of  these  wretched  vehicles 
served  the  traffic  between  Mayenne  and  Fougeres.  Some 
feather-headed  persons  had  baptized  it  antiphrastically  a 
turgotine,  either  in  imitation  of  Paris  or  in  ridicule  of  an 
innovating  minister.  It  was  a  ramshackle  cabriolet  on 
two  very  high  wheels,  and  in  its  recesses  two  pretty 
stout  persons  would  have  had  difficulty  in  ensconcing 
themselves.  The  scanty  size  of  the  frail  trap  forbidding 
heavy  loads,  and  the  inside  of  the  coach-box  being  strictly 
reserved  for  the  use  of  the  mail,  travelers,  if  they  had 
any  luggage,  were  obliged  to  keep  it  between  their  legs, 
already  cramped  in  a  tiny  kind  of  boot  shaped  like  a 
bellows.  Its  original  color  and  that  of  its  wheels  pre- 
sented an  insoluble  riddle  to  travelers.  Two  leathern 
curtains,  difficult  to  draw  despite  their  length  of  service, 
were  intended  to  protect  the  sufferers  against  wind  and 
rain;  and  the  driver,  perched  on  a  box  like  those  of  the 
worst  Parisian  shandrydans,  could  not  help  joining  in 
the  travelers'  conversation  from  his  position  between  his 
two-legged  and  his  four-legged  victims.  The  whole 


*  August,  1827,  when  Balzac,  twenty-eight  years  old,  and  twenty-eight  years  after 
date,  wrote  The  Chounns  at  Fougeres  itself. — Translator's  .Vote. 


69  THE    CHOUANS. 

equipage  bore  a  fantastic  likeness  to  a  decrepit  old  man 
who  has  lived  through  any  number  of  catarrhs  and  apo- 
plexies, and  from  whom  death  seems  yet  to  hold  his 
hand.  As  it  traveled,  it  alternately  groaned  and  creaked, 
lurching  by  turns  forwards  and  backwards  like  a  traveler 
heavy  with  sleep,  as  though  it  was  pulling  the  other  way 
to  the  rough  action  of  two  Breton  ponies  who  dragged 
it  over  a  sufficiently  rugged  road.  This  relic  of  by-gone 
ages  contained  three  travelers,  who,  after  leaving  Ern£e, 
where  they  had  changed  horses,  resumed  a  conversation 
with  the  driver  which  had  been  begun  before  the  end  of 
the  last  stage. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  saying  that  Chouans  have  shown 
themselves  hereabouts?"  said  the  driver.  "The  Ern£e 
people  have  just  told  me  that  Commandant  Hulot  has 
not  left  Fougeres  yet." 

"Oh,  oh!  friend,"  said  the  youngest  traveler,  "you  risk 
nothing  but  your  skin.  If  you  had,  like  me,  three  hun- 
dred crowns  on  you,  and  if  you  were  known  for  a  good 
patriot,  you  would  not  take  things  so  quietly." 

"Anyhow,  you  don't  keep  your  own  secrets,"  said  the 
driver,  shaking  his  head. 

"Count  your  sheep,  and  the  wolf  will  eat  them,"  said 
the  second  traveler,  who,  dressed  in  black,  and  appar- 
ently some  forty  years  old,  seemed  to  be  a  rector  of  the 
district.  His  chin  was  double,  and  his  rosy  complexion 
was  a  certain  sign  of  his  ecclesiastical  status.  But 
though  fat  and  short,  he  showed  no  lack  of  agility  when- 
ever there  was  need  to  get  down  from  the  vehicle  or  to 
get  up  again. 

"Perhaps  you  are  Chouans  yourselves?"  said  the  man 
with  the  three  hundred  crowns,  whose  ample  goatskin- 
covered  breeches  of  good  cloth,  and  a  clean  waistcoat, 
resembled  the  garments  of  some  well-to-do  farmer.  "By 


THI  AMBUIK,  .    63 

Saint  Robespierre's  soul!  you  shall  have  a  warm  recep- 
tion, I  promise  you!  "  And  his  gray  eyes  traveled  from 
the  priest  to  the  driver,  as  he  pointed  to  a  pair  of  pistols 
in  his  belt. 

"Bretons  are  not  afraid  of  those  things,"  said  the  rector, 
contemptuously.  "Besides,  do  we  look  like  people  who 
have  designs  on  your  money?" 

Every  time  the  word  "money"  was  mentioned,  the 
driver  became  silent,  and  the  rector  was  sufficiently  wide- 
awake to  suspect  that  the  patriot  had  no  crowns  at  all, 
and  that  their  conductor  was  in  charge  of  some. 

"Are  you  well  loaded  to-day,  Coupiau?"  said  the  priest. 

"Oh,  Monsieur  Gudin!  I  have  nothing  worth  speaking 
of,"  answered  the  driver.  But  the  Abb£  Gudin,  consid- 
ering the  countenances  of  the  patriot  and  Coupiau,  per- 
ceived that  they  were  equally  undisturbed  at  the  answer. 

"So  much  the  better  for  you,"  retorted  the  patriot;  "I 
can  then  take  my  own  means  to  protect  my  own  property 
in  case  of  ill-fortune." 

But  Coupiau  rebelled  at  this  cool  announcement  as  to 
taking  the  law  into  the  patriot's  own  hands,  and  answered 
roughly: 

"I  am  master  in  my  coach,  and  provided  I  drive  you— 

"Are  you  a  patriot,  or  are  you  a  Chouan?"  said  his 
opponent,  interrupting  him  sharply. 

"I  am  neither  one  nor  the  other,"  replied  Coupiau.  "I 
am  a  postilion;  and  what  is  more,  I  am  a  Breton — there- 
fore I  fear  neither  the  Blues  nor  the  gentlemen." 

"The  gentlemen  of  the  road,  you  mean,"  sneered  the 
patriot. 

"Nay,  they  only  take  back  what  has  been  taken  from 
them,"  said  the  rector,  quickly;  and  the  two  travelers 
stared  each  other  straight  in  the  face,  to  speak  vernacu- 
larly. But  there  was  in  the  interior  of  the  coach  a  third 


64  THE    CHOUANS. 

passenger,  who  during  this  altercation  observed  the 
deepest  silence,  neither  the  driver,  nor  the  patriot,  nor 
even  Gudin  paying  the  least  attention  to  such  a  dummy. 
Indeed,  he  was  one  of  those  unsociable  and  impractica- 
ble travelers  who  journey  like  a  calf  carried  unresist- 
ingly, with  its  legs  tied,  to  the  nearest  market,  who 
begin  by  occupying  at  least  their  full  legal  room,  and 
end  by  lolling  asleep,  without  any  false  modesty,  on  their 
neighbors'  shoulders.  The  patriot,  Gudin,  and  the  driver 
had  therefore  left  the  man  to  himself  on  the  strength  of 
his  sleep,  after  perceiving  that  it  was  useless  to  talk  to 
one  whose  stony  countenance  indicated  a  life  passed  in 
measuring  out  yards  of  linen,  and  an  intelligence  busied 
only  in  selling  them  as  much  as  possible  over  cost  price. 
A  fat  little  man,  curled  up  in  his  corner,  he  from  time 
to  time  opened  his  china-blue  eyes  and  rested  them  on 
each  speaker  in  turn  during  the  discussion,  with  expres- 
sions of  alarm,  doubt,  and  mistrust.  But  he  seemed 
only  to  be  afraid  of  his  fellow-travelers,  and  to  care 
little  for  the  Chouans;  while  when  he  looked  at  the 
driver  it  was  as  though  one  freemason  looked  at  another. 
At  this  moment  the  firing  on  the  Pilgrim  began. 
Coupiau,  with  a  startled  air,  pulled  up  his  horses. 

"Oh,  oh!  "  said  the  priest,  who  seemed  to  know  what 
he  was  talking  about,  "that  means  hard  fighting,  and 
plenty  of  men  at  it." 

"Yes,  Monsieur  Gudin.  But  the  puzzle  is,  who  will 
win?"  said  Coupiau;  and  this  time  all  faces  seemed 
equally  anxious. 

"Let  us  put  up  the  coach,"  said  the  patriot,  "at  the 
inn  over  there,  and  hide  it  till  we  know  the  result  of  the 
battle." 

This  seemed  such  prudent  advice  that  Coupiau  yielded 
to  it,  and  the  patriot  helped  the  driver  to  stow  the  coach 


THE   AMBUSH.  65 

away  from  all  eyes,  behind  a  fagot  stack.  But  the  sup- 
posed priest  seized  an  opportunity  of  saying  to  Coupiau: 

"Has  he  really  got  money?" 

"Eh!  Monsieur  Gudin,  if  what  he  has  were  in  your 
Reverence's  pockets,  they  would  not  be  heavy." 

The  Republicans,  in  their  hurry  to  gain  Ernee,  passed 
in  front  of  the  inn  without  halting;  and  at  the  sound  of 
their  march,  Gudin  and  the  innkeeper,  urged  by  curiosity, 
came  out  of  the  yard  gate  to  look  at  them.  All  of  a 
sudden  the  plump  priest  ran  to  a  soldier,  who  was  some- 
what behind. 

"What,  Gudin!  "  he  said,  "are  you  going  with  the 
Blues,  you  obstinate  boy?  what  are  you  thinking  of?" 

"Yes,  uncle,"  answered  the  corporal,  "I  have  sworn  to 
defend  France." 

"But,  miserable  man,  you  are  risking  your  soul!"  said 
the  uncle,  trying  to  arouse  in  his  nephew  those  religious 
sentiments  which  are  so  strong  in  a  Breton's  heart. 

"Uncle,  if  the  King  had  taken  the  head  of  the  army 
himself,  I  don't  say  but — " 

"Who  is  talking  of  the  King,  silly  boy?  will  your 
Republic  give  you  a  fat  living?  It  has  upset  every- 
thing. What  career  do  you  expect?  Stay  with  us ;  we 
shall  win  sooner  or  later,  and  you  shall  have  a  coun- 
selor's place  in  some  parliament  or  other." 

"A  parliament!  "  cried  Gudin,  scornfully.  "Good-bye, 
uncle." 

"You  shall  not  have  three  louis'  worth  from  me,"  said 
the  angry  uncle;  "I  will  disinherit  you!  " 

"Thanks!  "  said  the  Republican;   and  they  parted. 

The  fumes  of  some  cider  with  which  the  patriot  had 
regaled  Coupiau  while  the  little  troop  passed,  had  suc- 
ceeded in  muddling  the  driver's  brains;  but  he  started 
up  joyfully  when  the  innkeeper,  after  learning  the  result 
5 


66  THE    CHOUANS. 

of  the  struggle,  announced  that  the  Blues  had  got  the 
better.  He  set  off  once  more  with  his  coach,  and  the 
vehicle  was  not  long  in  showing  itself  at  the  bottom  of 
the  Pilgrim  valley,  where,  like  a  piece  of  wreckage 
floating  after  a  storm,  it  could  easily  be  seen  from  the 
high  ground,  both  of  Maine  and  Brittany. 

Hulot,  as  he  reached  the  top  of  a  rising  ground  which 
the  Blues  were  climbing,  and  whence  the  Pilgrim  was 
still  visible  in  the  distance,  turned  back  to  see  whether 
the  Chouans  were  still  there;  and  the  sun  flashing  on 
their  gun-barrels,  showed  them  to  him  like  dots  of  light. 
As  he  threw  a  last  look  over  the  valley  which  he  was  just 
leaving  for  that  of  Ernee,  he  thought  he  could  see 
Coupiau's  coach  and  horses  on  the  high  road. 

"Is  not  that  the  Mayenne  coach?"  he  asked  his  two 
friends;  and  the  officers,  gazing  at  the  old  turgotine, 
recognized  it  easily. 

"Well!  "  said  Hulot,  "why  did  we  not  meet  it?"  They 
looked  at  each  other  silently.  "Another  puzzle!  "  cried 
the  commandant;  "but  I  think  I  begin  to  understand." 

At  that  moment  Marche-a-Terre,  who  also  knew  the 
turgotine  well,  signaled  it  to  his  comrades,  and  then 
shouts  of  general  joy  woke  the  strange  young  lady  from 
her  reverie.  She  came  forward,  and  saw  the  vehicle 
bowling  along  with  fatal  swiftness  from  the  other  side 
of  the  Pilgrim.  The  unlucky  turgotine  soon  reached  the 
plateau,  and  the  Chouans,  who  had  hid  themselves  anew, 
pounced  on  their  prey  with  greedy  haste.  The  silent 
traveler  slipped  to  the  coach  floor  and  shrunk  out  of 
sight,  trying  to  look  like  a  parcel  of  goods. 

"Aha!  "  cried  Coupiau  from  his  box,  pointing  at  his 
peasant  passenger.  "You  have  scented  this  patriot,  have 
you?  He  has  a  bag  full  of  gold." 

But    the    Chouans    greeted    his    words   with    a  roar    of 


THE   AMBUSH.  67 

laughter,  and  shouted  "Pille-Miche!  Pille-Miche!  Pille- 
Miche!  " 

In  the  midst  of  the  hilarity  which  Pille-Miche  him- 
self, as  it  were,  echoed,  Coupiau  climbed  shamefacedly 
from  his  box.  But  when  the  famous  Cibot,  nicknamed 
Pille-Miche,  helped  his  neighbor  to  get  down,  a  respect- 
ful murmur  was  raised.  ' 'Tis  Abb£  Gudin!"  cried 
several,  and  at  this  honored  name  every  hat  went  off.  The 
Chouans  bent  the  knee  before  the  priest  and  begged  his 
blessing,  which  he  gave  them  with  solemnity. 

"He  would  outwit  Saint  Peter  himself,  and  filch  the 
keys  of  Paradise!"  said  the  rector,  clapping  Pille-Miche 
on  the  shoulder.  "But  for  him  the  Blues  would  have 
intercepted  us."  But  then,  seeing  the  young  lady,  the 
Abb6  Gudin  went  to  talk  to  her  a  few  paces  apart. 
Marche-a-Terre,  who  had  promptly  opened  the  box  of  the 
cabriolet,  discovered  with  savage  glee  a  bag  whose  shape 
promised  rouleaux  of  gold.  He  did  not  waste  much 
time  in  making  the  division,  and  each  Chouan  received 
the  part  that  fell  to  him  with  such  exactitude  that  the 
partition  did  not  excite  the  least  quarrel.  Then  he  came 
forward  to  the  young  lady  and  the  priest,  offering  them 
about  six  thousand  francs. 

"May  I  take  this  with  a  safe  conscience,  Monsieur 
Gudin?"  said  she,  feeling  in  need  of  some  approval  to 
support  her. 

"Why,  of  course,  madame !  Did  not  the  Church  for- 
merly approve  the  confiscation  of  the  Protestants'  goods? 
Much  more  should  she  approve  it  in  the  case  of  the  Rev- 
olutionists who  renounce  God,  destroy  chapels,  and  per- 
secute religion."  And  he  added  example  to  precept  by 
accepting  without  the  least  scruple  the  new  kind  of 
tithe  which  Marche-a-Terre  offered  him.  "Besides,"  said 
he,  "I  can  now  devote  all  rny  goods  to  the  defense  of 


68  THE   CHOUANS. 

God  and  the  King.  My  nephew  has  gone  off  with  the 
Blues." 

Meanwhile,  Coupiau  was  bewailing  his  fate,  and  declar- 
ing that  he  was  a  ruined  man. 

"Come  with  us,"  said  Marche-a-Terre;  "you  shall  have 
yout  share. " 

"But  they  will  think  that  I  have  let  myself  be  robbed 
on  purpose,  if  I  return  without  any  violence  having 
been  offered  me." 

"Oh,  is  that  all?"  said  M&rche-a-Terre. 

He  gave  the  word,  and  a  volley  riddled  the  turgotine. 
At  this  sudden  discharge  there  came  from  the  old  coach 
so  lamentable  a  howl  that  the  Chouans,  naturally  super- 
stitious, started  back  with  fright.  But  Marche-a-Terre 
had  caught  sight  of  the  pallid  face  of  the  silent  pas- 
senger rising  from,  and  then  falling  back  into,  a  corner 
of  the  coach  body. 

"There  is  still  a  fowl  in  your  coop,"  he  whispered  to 
Coupiau,  and  Pille-Miche,  who  understood  the  remark, 
winked  knowingly. 

"Yes,"  said  the  driver,  "but  I  make  it  a  condition  of 
my  joining  you  that  you  shall  let  me  take  the  good  man 
safe  and  sound  to  Fougeres.  I  swore  to  do  so  by  the 
Holy  Saint  of  Auray. " 

"Who  is  he?"  asked  Pille-Miche. 

"I  cannot  tell  you,"  answered  Coupiau. 

"Let  him  alone."  said  Marche-a-Terre,  jogging  Pille- 
Miche' s  elbow;  "he  has  sworn  by  Saint  Anne  of  Auray, 
and  he  must  keep  his  promise.  But,"  continued  the 
Chouan,  addressing  Coupiau,  "do  not  you  go  down  the  hill 
too  fast;  we  will  catch  you  up  on  business.  I  want  to 
see  your  passenger's  phiz,  and  then  we  will  give  him  a 
passport." 

At  that  moment  a  horse's  gallop  was  heard,  the  sound 


THE    AMBUSH.  69 

nearing  rapidly  from  the  Pilgrim  side,  and  soon  the 
young  chief  appeared.  The  lady  hastily  concealed  the 
bag  she  held  in  her  hand. 

"You  need  have  no  scruple  in  keeping  that  money,"  said 
the  young  man,  drawing  her  arm  forward  again.  "Here 
is  a  letter  from  your  mother  which  I  found  among  those 
waiting  for  me  at  the  Vivetiere. "  He  looked  by  tuVns 
at  the  Chouans  who  were  disappearing  in  the  woods  and 
the  coach  which  was  descending  the  valley  of  the  Couesnon, 
and  added,  "For  all  the  haste  I  made,  I  did  not  come  up 
in  time.  Heaven  grant  I  may  be  deceived  in  my  sus- 
picions. " 

"It  is  my  poor  mother's  money!"  cried  the  lad}',  after 
opening  the  letter,  the  first  lines  of  which  drew  the  ex- 
clamation from  her.  There  was  a  sound  of  stifled  laughter 
from  the  woods,  and  even  the  young  chief  could  not  help 
laughing  as  he  saw  her  clutching  the  bag  containing  her 
own  share  of  the  plunder  of  her  own  money.  Indeed,  she 
began  to  laugh  herself. 

"Well,  marquis,"  said  she  to  the  chief,  "God  be 
praised!  At  any  rate  I  come  off  blameless  this  time." 

"Will  you  never  be  serious,  not  even  in  remorse?"  said 
the  young  man. 

She  blushed  and  looked  at  the  marquis  with  an  air  so 
truly  penitent  that  it  disarmed  him.  The  abbe  politely, 
but  with  a  rather  doubtful  countenance,  restored  the  tithe 
which  he  had  just  accepted,  and  then  followed  the  chief, 
who  was  making  his  way  to  the  by-path  by  which  he  had 
come.  Before  joining  them  the  young  lady  made  a  sign 
to  Marche-a-Terre,  who  came  up  to  her. 

"Go  and  take  up  your  position  in  front  of  Mortagne, " 
she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "I  know  that  the  Blues  are 
going  to  send  almost  immediately  a  great  sum  in  cash  to 
Alenfon  to  defray  the  expenses  of  preparing  for  war.  If 


7O  THE    CHOUANS. 

I  give  up  to-day's  booty  to  our  comrades,  it  is  on  condi- 
tion that  they  take  care  to  make  up  my  loss.  But  above 
all  things  take  care  that  the  Gars  knows  nothing  of  the 
object  of  this  expedition;  he  would  very  likely  oppose  it. 
If  things  go  wrong,  I  will  appease  him." 

"Madame,"  said  the  marquis,  whose  horse  she  mounted 
behind  him,  giving  her  own  to  the  abbe,  "my  friends. at 
Paris  write  to  bid  us  look  to  ourselves,  for  the  Republic 
will  try  to  fight  us  underhand,  and  by  trickery." 

"They  might  do  worse,"  said  she.  "The  rascals  are 
clever.  I  shall  be  able  to  take  a  part  in  the  war,  and 
find  opponents  of  my  own  stamp." 

"Not  a  doubt  of  it,"  cried  the  marquis.  "Pichegru 
bids  me  be  very  cautious  and  circumspect  in  making 
acquaintances  of  every  kind.  The  Republic  does  me  the 
honor  of  thinking  me  more  dangerous  than  all  the  Ven- 
deans  put  together,  and  counts  on  my  foibles  to  get  hold 
of  me." 

"Would  you  distrust  me?"  she  said,  patting  his  heart 
with  the  hand  by  which  she  clung  to  him. 

"If  I  did,  would  you  be  there,  madame?"  answered  he, 
and  turned  towards  her  his  forehead,  which  she  kissed. 

"Then,"  said  the  abb6,  "we  have  more  to  fear  from 
Fouche's  police  than  from  the  battalions  of  mobiles, 
and  the  Anti-Chouans?" 

"Exactly,  your  Reverence." 

"Aha!  "  said  the  lady,  "Fouch£  is  going  to  send  women 
against  you,  is  he?  I  shall  be  ready  for  them,"  she  added, 
in  a  voice  deeper  than  usual,  and  after  a  slight  pause. 

Some  three  or  four  gunshots  off  from  the  waste  plateau 
which  the  leaders  were  now  leaving,  there  was  passing 
at  the  moment  one  of  those  scenes  which,  for  some  time 
to  come,  became  not  uncommon  on  the  highways.  On  the 
outskirts  of  the  little  village  of  the  Pilgrim,  Pille-Miche 


THE    AMBUSH. 


and  Marche-a-Terre  had  once  more  stopped  the  coach  at 
a  spot  where  the  road  dipped.  Coupiau  had  left  his  box 
'\  "^  *rf&^  after  a  slight  resistance;  and 

the  silent  passenger,  ex- 
tracted from  his  hiding-place 
by  the  two  Chouans,  was  on 
his  knees  in  a  broom  thicket. 

"Who  are  you?"  asked 
kMarche-a-Terre,  in  a  sinister 
tone. 

The  traveler  held  his  peace 
till  Pille-Miche  recom- 
menced his  examination  with 
a  blow  from  the  butt  of  his 
gun. 

"I  am,"  he  said,  glancing 


at  Coupiau,  "Jacques  Pinaud,  a  poor  linen  merchant." 
But  Coupiau,  who  did  not  think  that  he  broke  his  word 
by  so  doing,  shook  his  head.  The  gesture  enlightened 


72  THE    CHOUANS. 

Pille-Miche,  who  took  aim  at  the  traveler,  while  Marche- 
a-Terre  laid  before  him  in  plain  terms  this  alarming 
ultimatum: 

"You  are  too  fat  for  a  poor  man  with  a  poor  man's 
cares.  If  you  give  us  the  trouble  of  asking  your  real 
name  once  more,  my  friend  Pille-Miche  here  will  earn 
the  esteem  and  gratitude  of  your  heirs  by  one  little  gun- 
shot. Who  are  you?"  he  added,  after  a  brief  interval. 

"I  am  d'Orgemont,  of  Fougeres. " 

"Aha!"  cried  the  Chouans. 

"/  did  not  tell  your  name,  M.  d'Orgemont,"  said 
Coupiau.  "I  call  the  Holy  Virgin  to  witness  that  I 
defended  you  bravely." 

"As  you  are  Monsieur  d'Orgemont,  of  Fougeres,"  went 
on  Marche-a  Terre,  with  a  mock-respectful  air,  "you  shall 
be  let  go  quite  quietly.  But  as  you  are  neither  a  good 
Chouan  nor  a  true  Blue  (though  you  did  buy  the  estates 
of  Juvigny  Abbey),  you  shall  pay  us,"  said  the  Chouan, 
in  the  tone  of  a  man  who  is  counting  up  his  comrades, 
"three  hundred  crowns  of  six  francs  each  as  a  ransom. 
That  is  not  too  much  to  pay  for  the  privilege  of  being 
neutral. " 

"Three  hundred  crowns  of  six  francs!"  repeated  the 
luckless  banker,  Pille-Miche,  and  Coupiau  in  chorus,  but 
each  in  very  different  tones. 

"Alas!  my  dear  sir,"  said  d'Orgemont,  "I  am  a  ruined 
man.  The  forced  loan  of  one  hundred  millions  levied  by 
this  devilish  Republic,  which  assesses  me  at  terrible 
rates,  has  drained  me  dry." 

"And  pray,  how  much  did  the  Republic  ask  of  you?" 

"A  thousand  crowns,  dear  sir,"  said  the  banker,  in  a 
lamentable  tone,  hoping  to  be  let  off  something. 

"If  the  Republic  borrows  such  large  sums  from  you, 
and  forces  you  to  pay  them,  you  must  see  that  your  in- 


THE    AMBUSH.  73 

terest  lies  with  us,  whose  government  is  less  expensive. 
Do  you  mean  to  say  that  three  hundred  crowns  is  too 
much  to  pay  for  your  skin?" 

"But  where  am  I  to  get  them?" 

"Out  of  your  strong-box,"  said  Pille-Miche;  "and  take 
care  your  crowns  are  not  clipped,  or  we  will  clip  your 
nails  in  the  fire  for  you." 

"But  where  am  I  to  pay  them?"  asked  d'Orgemont. 

"Your  country  house  at  Fougeres  is  close  to  the  farm 
of  Gibarry,  where  dwells  my  cousin  Galope-Chopine, 
otherwise  called  Long  Cibot.  You  shall  pay  them  to 
him,"  said  Pille-Miche. 

"But  that  is  not  business,"  said  d'Orgemont. 

"What  do  we  care  for  that?"  replied  Marche  a-Terre. 
"Remember  that  if  the  crowns  are  not  paid  to  Galope- 
Chopine  in  fifteen  days'  time,  we  will  pay  you  a  little 
visit  which  will  cure  you  of  gout,  if  you  have  got  it  in 
your  feet.  As  for  you,  Coupiau, "  continued  he,  turning 
to  the  conductor,  "your  name  henceforth  shall  be  Mene- 
a-Bien."  And  with  these  words  the  two  Chouans 
departed,  and  the  traveler  climbed  up  again  into  the 
coach,  which  Coupiau,  whipping  up  his  steeds,  drove 
rapidly  towards  Fougeres. 

"If  you  had  been  armed,"  said  Coupiau,  "we  might 
have  made  a  little  better  fight  of  it." 

"Silly  fellow,"  answered  d'Orgemont,  "I  have  got  ten 
thousand  francs  there,"  and  he  pointed  to  his  great 
shoes.  "Is  it  worth  fighting  when  one  has  such  a  sum  on 
one  as  that?" 

Mene-a-Bien  scratched  his  ear  and  looked  backwards, 
but  all  trace  of  his  new  friends  had  disappeared. 

Hulot  and  his  soldiers  halted  at  Ernee  to  deposit  the 
wounded  in  the  hospital  of  the  little  town;  and  then, 
without  any  further  inconvenient  incident  interrupting 


74  THE    CHOUANS. 

the  march  of  the  Republican  force,  made  their  way  to 
Mayenne.  There  the  commandant  was  able  next  day  to 
put  an  end  to  his  doubts  about  the  progress  of  the  mail ; 
for  the  townsfolk  received  news  of  the  robbery  of  the 
coach. 

A  few  days  later  the  authorities  brought  into  Mayenne 
numbers  of  patriot  conscripts,  sufficient  to  enable  Hulot 
to  fill  up  the  ranks  of  his  demi-brigade.  But  there  soon 
followed  disquieting  reports  as  to  the  insurrection. 
There  was  complete  revolt  at  every  point  where,  in  the 
last  war,  the  Chouans  and  Vendeans  had  established  the 
principal  centers  of  their  outbreak.  In  Brittany,  the 
Royalists  had  seized  Pontorson,  so  as  to  open  communi- 
cations with  the  sea.  They  had  taken  the  little  town  of 
Saint  James,  between  Pontorson  and  Fougeres,  and  seemed 
disposed  to  make  it  for  the  time  their  place  of  arms,  a 
headquarters  of  their  magazines  and  of  their  operations, 
from  which  without  danger  they  could  correspond  both 
with  Normandy  and  Morbihan.  The  inferior  leaders 
were  scouring  these  districts  with  the  view  of  exciting 
the  partisans  of  monarchy,  and  arranging,  if  possible,  a 
systematic  effort.  These  machinations  were  reported  at 
the  same  time  as  news  from  La  Vendee,  where  similar 
intrigues  were  stirring  up  the  country,  under  the  direc- 
tion of  four  famous  leaders,  the  Abb£  Vernal,  the  Compte 
de  Fontaine,  M.  de  Chatillon,  and  M.  Suzannet.  The 
Chevalier  de  Valois,  the  Marquis  d'Esgrignon,  and  the 
Troisvilles  acted,  it  was  said,  as  their  agents  in  the 
department  of  the  Orne.  But  the  real  chief  of  the 
extensive  scheme  which  was  unfolding  itself,  slowly  but 
in  an  alarming  fashion,  was  "the  Gars,"  a  nickname  given 
by  the  Chouans  to  the  Marquis  de  Montauran  as  soon  as 
he  had  landed. 

The    information    sent    to    the    Government    by   Hulot 


THE  AMBUSH.  75 

turned  out  correct  in  every  particular.  The  authority  of 
the  chief  sent  from  abroad  had  been  at  once  acknowl- 
edged. Indeed,  the  marquis  was  acquiring  sufficient 
influence  over  the  Chouans  to  enable  him  to  give  them  a 
glimmering  of  the  true  objects  of  the  war,  and  to  per- 
suade them  that  the  excesses  of  which  they  had  been 
guilty  were  tarnishing  the  noble  cause  to  which  they 
devoted  themselves.  The  bold  temper,  the  courage,  the 
coolness,  the  ability  of  this  young  lord  revived  the 
hopes  of  the  Republic's  enemies,  and  'administered  so 
lively  an  impulse  to  the  gloomy  fanaticism  of  the  dis- 
trict, that  even  lukewarm  partisans  labored  to  bring  about 
results  decisive  in  favor  of  the  stricken  monarchy. 
Meanwhile,  Hulot  received  no  answer  to  the  repeated 
demands  and  reports  which  he  kept  sending  to  Paris, 
and  this  astounding  silence  boded  beyond  doubt  some 
crisis  in  the  fortunes  of  the  Republic. 

"Can  it  be  now,"  said  the  old  chief  to  his  friends, 
"with  the  Government  as  it  is  with  men  who  are  dunned 
for  money?  do  they  put  all  demands  in  the  waste-paper 
basket?" 

But  before  long  there  spread  the  rumor  of  the  return, 
as  if  by  enchantment,  of  General  Bonaparte,  and  of  the 
events  of  the  i8th  Brumaire,  and  the  military  command- 
ers in  the  West  were  not  slow  to  understand  the  silence 
of  the  ministers.  Nevertheless,  these  commanders  were 
only  the  more  impatient  to  get  rid  of  the  responsibility 
which  weighed  on  them,  and  felt  a  lively  curiosity  to 
know  what  measures  the  new  Government  would  take. 
When  they  learned  that  General  Bonaparte  had  been 
appointed  First  Consul  of  the  Republic,  the  soldiers  felt 
keen  pleasure,  seeing  for  the  first  time  one  of  their  own 
men  promoted  to  the  management  of  affairs.  All  France, 
which  idolized  the  young  general,  trembled  with  hope, 


76  THE   CHOUANS. 

and  the  national  energy  revived.  The  capital,  weary  of 
dullness  and  gloom,  gave  itself  up  to  the  festivals  and 
amusements  of  which  it  had  so  long  been  deprived.  The 
earlier  acts  of  the  consulate  disappointed  no  expecta- 
tions, and  Freedom  felt  no  qualms.  Soon  the  First 
Consul  addressed  a  proclamation  to  the  inhabitants  of 
the  West,  one  of  those  eloquent  allocutions  directed  to 
the  masses  which  Bonaparte  had,  so  to  say,  invented, 
and  which  produced  in  those  days  of  prodigious  patriot- 
ism effects  altogether  miraculous.  His  voice  echoed 
through  the  world  like  that  of  a  prophet:  for  as  yet  no 
one  of  these  manifestoes  had  failed  to  be  confirmed  by 
victory.  Thus  it  ran: 

"DWELLERS  IN  THE  WEST:  — 

"For  the  second  time  an  impious  war  has  set  your 
departments  in  a  flame. 

"The  authors  of  these  troubles  are  traitors  who  have 
sold  themselves  to  the  English,  or  brigands  who  seek  in 
civil  disorder  nothing  but  occasion  and  immunity  for 
their  crimes. 

"To  such  men  Government  can  neither  show  clemency 
nor  even  make  a  declaration  of  its  own  principles. 

"But  there  are  some  citizens  still  dear  to  their  country 
who  have  been  seduced  by  the  artifices  of  these  men,  and 
these  citizens  deserve  enlightenment  and  the  communica- 
tion of  the  truth. 

"Some  unjust  laws  have  been  decreed  and  put  in  exe- 
cution; some  arbitrary  acts  have  disturbed  the  citizens' 
sense  of  personal  safety  and  their  liberty  of  conscience, 
everywhere  the  rash  insertion  of  names  in  the  list  of 
emigrants  has  done  harm  to  patriots:  in  short,  the  great 
principles  of  social  order  have  been  violated. 

"The  consuls  therefore  make  known  that,   freedom    of 


THE    AMBUSH.  77 

worship  having  been  decreed  by  the  Constitution,  the 
law  of  the  nth  Prairial,  year  III.,  which  grants  to  all 
citizens  the  use  of  edifices  intended  for  religious  wor- 
ship, will  be  put  in  force. 

"The  Government  will  show  mercy:  it  will  extend  to 
the  repentant  an  entire  and  absolute  indemnity.  But  it 
will  strike  down  all  those  who  after  this  announcement 
dare  to  continue  resistance  to  the  sovereignty  of  the 
people." 

"Quite  paternal,  is  it  not?"  said  Hulot,  after  this  con- 
sular allocution  had  been  publicly  read;  "yet,  you  will 
see,  not  one  Royalist  brigand  will  be  converted  by 
it." 

The  commandant  was  right,  and  the  proclamation  did 
nothing  but  attach  each  partisan  more  strongly  to  his 
own  party.  A  few  days  later,  Hulot  and  his  colleagues 
received  reinforcements;  and  the  new  Minister  of  War 
sent  information  that  General  Brune  had  been  appointed 
to  the  command  of  the  forces  in  the  West  of  France, 
while  Hulot,  whose  experience  was  well  known,  had 
provisional  authority  in  the  departments  of  Orne  and 
Mayenne.  Soon  a  hitherto  unknown  activity  set  all  the 
springs  of  administration  working.  A  circular  from  the 
Minister  of  War  and  the  Minister  of  General  Police 
announced  that  vigorous  measures,  the  execution  of 
which  was  entrusted  to  the  heads  of  the  military,  had 
been  taken  to  stifle  the  insurrection  at  its  source.  But 
the  Chouans  and  the  Vendeans  had  already  profited  by 
the  sluggishness  of  the  Republic  to  raise  the  country  and 
to  gain  complete  possession  of  it.  Accordingly,  a  new 
consular  proclamation  was  launched,  addressed  this  time 
to  the  troops: 


78  THE  CHOUANS. 

"SOLDIERS:  — 

"There  are  now  in  the  West  no  enemies  but  bandits, 
emigrants,  and  the  hirelings  of  England. 

"The  army  consists  of  more  than  sixty  thousand  gallant 
men:  let  me  learn  soon  that  the  rebel  chiefs  are  no 
more.  Glory  is  to  be  gained  by  toil:  who  would  be 
without  it  if  it  were  to  be  won  by  keeping  to  barracks 
in  the  cities? 

"Soldiers,  no  matter  what  your  rank  in  the  army  may 
be,  the  gratitude  of  the  nation  awaits  you!  To  deserve 
it  you  must  brave  the  inclemency  of  the  seasons,  ice, 
snow,  the  bitter  cold  of  night;  you  must  surprise  your 
enemies  at  break  of  day,  and  put  the  wretches,  the 
scandal  of  France,  to  the  sword  ! 

"Let  your  campaign  be  brief  and  successful;  give  no 
mercy  to  the  bandits,  but  observe  the  strictest  disci- 
pline. 

"National  Guards!  let  the  effort  of  your  arms  be  joined 
to  that  of  the  troops  of  the  line. 

"If  you  know  of  any  men  among  you  who  are  partisans 
of  the  bandits,  arrest  them!  Let  them  find  nowhere  any 
shelter  from  the  pursuing  soldier;  and  if  there  be  any 
traitors  who  dare  to  harbor  and  defend  them,  let  both 
perish  together!  " 

"What  a  fellow!  "  cried  Hulot.  "It  is  just  as  it  was 
in  Italy:  he  rings  the  bell  for  mass,  and  says  it,  all  by 
himself.  That  is  the  way  to  talk." 

"Yes;  but  he  talks  by  himself  and  in  his  own  name," 
-aid  Gerard,  who  was  beginning  to  dread  what  might 
come  of  the  i8th  Brumaire. 

"Odds  sentries  and  sentry-boxes!"  said  Merle.  "What 
docs  that  matter,  since  he  is  a  soldier?" 

A  few  paces  off,  some  of  the  rank  and  file  were  cluster- 


THE    AMBUSH. 


79 


ing  round  the.  procla- 
mation which  was 
stuck  on  the  wall. 
Now,  as  not  a  man  of 
them  could  read,  they 
gazed  at  it,  some  in- 


So  THE    CHOUANS. 

differently,   others  curiously,  while  two  or  three  scanned 
the  passers-by  for  a  citizen  who  looked  learned. 

"Come,  Clef-des-Coeurs, "  said  Beau-Pied  mockingly  to 
his  comrade,  "what  does  that  rag  there  say?" 

"It  is  easy  to  guess,"  answered  Clef-des-Coeurs.  And 
as  he  spoke  all  looked  at  the  pair,  who  were  always 
ready  to  play  each  his  part. 

"Look  there!  "  continued  Clef-des-Cceurs,  pointing  to  a 
rough  cut  at  the  head  of  the  proclamation,  where  for 
some  days  past  a  compass  had  replaced  the  level  of 
T793-  "It  means  that  we  fellows  have  got  to  step  out. 
They  have  stuck  a  compass*  open  on  it  for  an  em- 
blem. " 

"My  boy,  don't  play  the  learned  man;  it  is  not  'em- 
blem,' but  'problem.'  I  served  first  with  the  gunners," 
said  Beau-Pied,  "and  the  officers  were  busy  about  nothing 
else." 

'Tis  an  emblem!  "      '  'Tis  a  problem!  "     "Let  us  have 
a  bet  on  it."      "What?"     "Your  German  pipe."     "Done!" 

"Ask  your  pardon,  adjutant,  but  is  it  not  'emblem,'  and 
not  'problem?'"  said  Clef-des-Cceurs  to  Gerard,  who  was 
thoughtfully  following  Hulot  and  Merle. 

'Tis  both  one  and  the  other,"  said  he,  gravely. 

"The  adjutant  is  making  game  of  us,"  said  Beau-Pied. 
"The  paper  means  that  our  General  of  Italy  is  made  Con- 
sul (a  fine  commission!)  and  that  we  shall  get  greatcoats 
and  boots  !" 


*  This  refers  to  the  French  idiom,  ouvrir  le  cotnpas.  meaning  "Stir  the  stumps," 
"Step  out."  —  Translator's  Note. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A    NOTION    OF    FOUCHft's. 

^TOWARDS  the  end  of  the  month  of  Brumaire,  while 
Hulot  was  superintending  the  morning  drill  of  his 
demi-brigade,  the  whole  of  which  had  been  drawn  to- 
gether at  Mayenne  by  orders  from  headquarters,  an  ex- 
press from  Alencon  delivered  to  him  certain  dispatches, 
during  the  reading  of  which  very  decided  vexation  showed 
itself  on  his  face. 

"Well,  then,  to  business!"  cried  he,  somewhat  ill-tem- 
peredly,  thrusting  the  papers  in  the  crown  of  his  hat. 
"Two  companies  are  to  set  out  with  me  and  march 
towards  Mortagne.  The  Chouans  are  about  there.  You 
will  come  with  me,"  said  he  to  Merle  and  Gerard.  "May 
they  make  a  noble  of  me  if  I  understand  a  word  of  my 
dispatches!  I  dare  say  I  am  only  a  fool.  But  never 
mind!  let  us  get  to  work;  there  is  no  time  to  lose." 

"Why,  commandant,  is  there  any  very  savage  beast  in 
the  game-bag  there?"  asked  Merle,  pointing  to  the  official 
envelope  of  the  dispatch. 

•  "God's  thunder!   there  is   nothing    at   all,   except  that 
they  are  bothering  us!  " 

When  the  commandant  let  slip  this  military  expression 
(or  rather  for  which,  as  mentioned  before,  we  have  sub- 
stituted it),  it  always  pointed  to  bad  weather;  and  its 
various  intonations  made  up,  as  it  were,  a  series  of  degrees 
which  acted  as  a  thermometer  of  their  chief's  temper  to 
the  demi-brigade.  Indeed,  the  old  soldier's  frankness 
had  made  the  interpretation  so  easy  that  the  sorriest 
6  81 


82  THE    CHOUANS. 

drummer-boy  in  the  regiment  soon  knew  his  Hulot  by 
heart,  thanks  to  mere  observation  of  the  changes  in  the 
grimace  with  which  the  commandant  cocked  his  cheek 
and  winked  his  eye.  This  time  the  tone  of  sullen  wrath 
with  which  he  accompanied  the  word  made  his  two 
friends  silent  and  watchful.  The  very  pock-marks  which 
pitted  his  martial  visage  seemed  to  deepen,  and  his 
complexion  took  a  browner  tan.  It  had  happened  that 
his  mighty  plaited  pigtail  had  fallen  forward  on  one  of 
his  epaulettes  when  he  put  on  his  cocked  hat,  and  Hulot 
jerked  it  back  with  such  rage  that  the  curls  were  all  dis- 
ordered. Yet,  as  he  stood  motionless,  with  clenched 
fists,  his  arms  folded  on  his  breast,  and  his  moustache 
bristling,  Gerard  ventured  to  ask  him,  "Do  we  start  at 
once?" 

"Yes,   if  the  cartridge-boxes  are  full,"  growled  Hulot. 

"They  are. " 

"Shoulder  arms!  File  to  the  left!  Forward!  March!" 
said  Gerard,  at  a  sign  from  the  chief. 

The  drummers  placed  themselves  at  the  head  of  the 
two  companies  pointed  out  by  Gerard;  and  as  the  drums 
began  to  beat,  the  commandant,  who  had  been  plunged 
in  thought,  seemed  to  wake  up,  and  left  the  town,  ac- 
companied by  his  two  friends,  to  whom  he  did  not  ad- 
dress a  word.  Merle  and  Gerard  looked  at  each  other 
several  times  without  speaking,  as  if  to  ask,  "Will  he 
sulk  with  us  long?"  and  as  they  marched,  they  stole 
glances  at  Hulot,  who  was  still  growling  unintelligible 
words  between  his  tee«th.  Several  times  the  soldiers 
heard  him  swearing;  but  not  one  of  them  opened  his 
lips,  for,  at  the  right  time,  they  all  knew  how  to  observe 
the  stern  discipline  to  which  the  troops  who  had  served 
under  Bonaparte  in  Italy  had  become  accustomed.  Most 
of  them  were,  like  Hulot  himself,  relics  of  the  famous 


A   NOTION   OF    FOUCHE'S.  83 

battalions  that  capitulated  at  Mayence  on  a  promise  that 
they  should  not  be  employed  on  the  frontiers,  and  who 
were  called  in  the  army  the  "Mayencais;  "  nor  would  it 
have  been  easy  to  find  officers  and  men  who  understood 
each  other  better. 

On  the  day  following  that  on  which  they  set  out,  Hulot 
and  his  friends  found  themselves  at  early  morning  on 
the  Alen9on  road,  about  a  league  from  that  city,  in  the 
direction  of  Mortagne,  where  the  road  borders  meadows 
watered  by  the  Sarthe.  Over  these  a  succession  of 
picturesque  landscapes  opens  to  the  left,  while  the  right 
side,  composed  of  thick  woods  which  join  on  to  the  great 
forest  of  Menil-Broust,  sets  off  (if  we  may  use  the 
painter's  term)  the  softer  views  of  the  river.  The  foot- 
paths at  the  edge  of  the  road  are  shut  in  by  ditches,  the 
earth  of  which,  constantly  turned  up  towards  the  fields, 
produces  high  slopes  crowned  by  ajoncs,  as  they  call  the 
thorny  broom  throughout  the  West.  This  shrub,  which 
branches  out  in  thick  bushes,  affords  during  the  winter 
capital  fodder  for  horses  and  cattle;  but,  before  its  har- 
vest, the  Chouans  used  to  hide  behind  its  dark-green 
tufts.  These  slopes  and  their  ajoncs,  which  tell  the  trav- 
eler that  he  is  drawing  near  Brittany,  made  this  part  of 
the  road  at  that  time  as  hazardous  as  it  is  still  beauti- 
ful. 

The  dangers  which  were  likely  to  be  met  in  the  journey 
from  Mortagne  to  Alen£on,  and  from  Alen9on  to  May- 
enne,  were  the  cause  of  Hulot' s  expedition;  and  at  this 
very  point  the  secret  of  his  wrath  at  last  escaped  him. 
He  was  acting  as  escort  to  an  old  mail-coach  drawn  by 
post-horses,  whose  pace  the  weariness  of  his  own  soldiers 
kept  to  a  slow  walk.  The  companies  of  Blues  (forming 
part  of  the  garrison  of  Mortagne)  which  had  escorted  this 
wretched  vehicle  to  the  limits  of  their  own  appointed 


84  THE    CHOUANS. 

district,  where  Hulot  had  come  to  relieve  them,  were 
already  on  their  way  home,  and  appeared  afar  off  like 
black  dots.  One  cf  the  old  Republican's  own  companies 
was  placed  a  few  paces  behind  the  coach,  and  the  other 
in  front  of  it.  Hulot,  who  was  between  Merle  and 
Gerard,  about  half-way  between  the  coach  and  the  van- 
guard, suddenly  said  to  them: 

"A  thousand  thunders!  Would  you  believe  that  the 
general  packed  us  off  from  Mayenne  to  dance  attendance 
on  the  two  petticoats  in  this  old  wagon?" 

"But,  commandant,"  answered  Gerard,  "when  we  took 
up  our  post,  an  hour  ago,  with  the  citizenesses,  you 
bowed  to  them  quite  politely!" 

"There  is  just  the  shame  of  it!  Don't  these  Paris 
dandies  request  us  to  show  the  greatest  respect  to  their 

d d  females?  To  think  that  they  should  insult  good 

and  brave  patriots  like  us  by  tying  us  to  the  tail  of  a 
woman's  skirt!  For  my  part,  you  know,  I  run  straight 
myself,  and  do  not  like  dodgings  in  others.  When  I  saw 
Danton  with  his  mistresses,  Barras  with  his,  I  told 
them,  'Citizens,  when  the  Republic  set  you  to  govern, 
she  did  not  mean  to  license  the  games  of  the  old  regime.' 
You  will  reply  that  women — oh!  one  must  have  women, 
of  course!  Brave  fellows  deserve  women,  and  good 
women,  too.  But  it  is  no  use  chattering  when  there 
is  mischief  at  hand.  What  was  the  good  of  making 
short  work  of  the  abuses  of  the  old  days,  if  patriots 
are  to  start  them  afresh?  Look  at  the  First  Consul:  there 
is  a  man  for  you;  no  women  about  him,  always  attend- 
ing to  his  business.  I  would  bet  the  left  side  of  my 
moustache  that  he  knows  nothing  of  the  absurd  work  we 
are  made  to  do  here." 

"Upon  my  word,  commandant,"  answered  Merle,  laugh- 
ing, "I  caught  just  a  glimpse  of  the  young  lady  hidden 


A    NOTION    OF   FOUCHfi'S.  #5 

in  the  coach,  and  it  is  my  opinion  that  it  is  no  shame 
for  any  man  to  feel,  as  I  do,  a  longing  to  approach  that 
carriage  and  exchange  a  few  words  with  the  travel- 
ers. " 

"Beware,  Merle,"  said  Gerard;  "the  dames  are  accom- 
panied by  a  citizen  clever  enough  to  catch  you  in  a 
trap." 

"Who  do  you  mean?  that  incroyable,  whose  little  eyes 
are  constantly  shifting  from  one  side  to  the  other  as  if 
he  saw  Chouans  everywhere?  that  musk-scented  idiot, 
whose  legs  are  so  short  you  can  scarcely  see  them,  and 
who,  when  his  horse's  legs  are  hidden  by  the  carriage, 
looks  like  a  duck  with  its  head  protruding  from  a  game 
pie?  If  that  booby  prevents  me  caressing  his  pretty 
nightingale  - 

"Duck,  nightingale!  Oh!  my  poor  Merle,  you  were 
always  feather-headed.  But  look  out  for  the  duck:  his 
green  eyes  appear  to  me  as  treacherous  as  those  of  a 
viper,  and  as  keen  as  those  of  a  woman  who  pardons  her 
husband  his  infidelities.  I  am  less  suspicious  of  the 
Chouans  than  I  am  of  those  lawyers  whose  figures  look 
like  lemonade  bottles." 

"Bah!"  retorted  Merle,  gayly,  "with  the  permission  of 
the  commandant,  I  will  run  the  risk.  That  woman  has 
eyes  like  stars,  and  one  may  well  venture  everything  to 
gaze  into  them." 

"Our  comrade  is  caught,"  said  Gerard  to  the  command- 
ant; "he  is  beginning  to  talk  nonsense." 

Hulot  made  a  grimace,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
answered:  "Before  taking  the  soup,  I  advise  him  to  taste 
it." 

"Dear  old  Merle,"  said  Gerard,  judging  from  his  lag- 
ging steps  that  he  was  manoeuvring  to  gradually  reach 
the  coach,  "what  good  spirits  he  has!  He  is  the  only 


86 


THE    CHOUANS. 


man  who  could  laugh  at  the  death  of  a  comrade  without 
being  taxed  with  want  of  feeling." 

"He  is  the  true  type  of  a  French  soldier,"  remarked 
Hulot,  gravely. 

"Oh!  he  is  one  who  wears  his  epaulettes  upon  his 
shoulders  to  let  the  people  see  that  he  is  a  captain," 
exclaimed  Gerard,  laughing;  "as  if  rank  made  any  differ- 
ence." 

The  carriage,  towards  which  the  officer  was  making  his 


1 1.,,,;!, 


way,  contained  two  women,  one  of  whom  appeared  to  be 
the  servant  of  the  other. 

A  thin,  dried-up  little  man  galloped  sometimes  before, 
sometimes  behind  the  carriage,  but  although  he  seemed 
to  accompany  the  two  privileged  travelers,  no  one  saw  him 
address  a  word  to  them.  This  silence,  a  mark  of  con- 
tempt, or  respect,  the  numerous  pieces  of  luggage,  and 
the  band-boxes  of  the  one  whom  the  commandant  called 


A  NOTION    OF    FOUCHfi'S.  87 

a  princess — all,  even  to  the  costume  of  the  attendant 
cavalier,  again  roused  Hulot's  bile.  The  costume  of 
this  unknown  presented  an  exact  picture  of  the  fashion 
which  at  that  time  called  forth  the  caricatures  of  the 
Incroyables.  Imagine  a  person  muffled  in  a  coat  so 
short  in  front  that  there  showed  beneath  five  or  six  inches 
of  the  waistcoat,  and  with  skirts  so  long  behind  that  they 
resembled  a  codfish  tail,  a  term  then  commonly  em- 
ployed to  designate  them.  An  immense  cravat  formed 
round  his  neck  such  innumerable  folds  that  the  little 
head,  emerging  from  a  labyrinth  of  muslin,  almost  justi- 
fied Captain  Merle's  kitchen  simile.  The  stranger  wore 
tight  breeches,  and  boots  a  la  Suwarrow;  a  huge  white 
and  blue  cameo  was  stuck,  as  a  pin,  in  his  shirt.  Two 
watch-chains  hung  in  parallel  festoons  at  his  waist;  and 
his  hair,  hanging  in  corkscrew  curls  on  each  side  of  the 
face,  almost  hid  his  forehead.  Finally,  as  a  last  touch 
of  decoration,  the  collars  of  his  shirt  and  his  coat  rose 
so  high  that  his  head  presented  the  appearance  of  a 
bouquet  in  its  paper  wrapping.  If  there  be  added  to 
these  insignificant  details,  which  formed  a  mass  of  dis 
parities  with  no  ensemble,  the  absurd  contrast  of  his 
yellow  breeches,  his  red  waistcoat,  his  cinnamon-brown 
coat,  a  faithful  portrait  will  be  given  of  the  height  of 
fashion  at  which  dandies  aimed  at  the  beginning  of  the 
Consulate.  Preposterous  as  the  costume  was,  it  seemed 
to  have  been  invented  as  a  sort  of  touchstone  of  elegance 
to  show  that  nothing  can  be  too  absurd  for  fashion  to 
hallow  it.  The  rider  appeared  full  thirty  years  old, 
though  he  was  not  in  reality  more  than  twenty-two — an 
appearance  due  perhaps  to  hard  living,  perhaps  to  the 
dangers  of  the  time.  Yet,  though  he  was  dressed  like 
a  mountebank,  his  air  announced  a  certain  polish  of 
manners  which  revealed  the  well-bred  man.  No  sooner 


88  THE    CHOUANS. 

did  the  captain  approach  the  carriage  than  the  dandy 
seemed  to  guess  his  purpose,  and  facilitated  it  by  check- 
ing his  horse's  pace;  Merle,  who  had  cast  a  sarcastic 
glance  at  him,  being  met  by  one  of  those  impassive 
faces  which  the  vicissitudes  of  the  Revolution  had 
taught  to  hide  even  the  least  emotion.  As  soon  as  the 
ladies  perceived  the  slouched  corner  of  the  captain's 
old  cocked  hat,  and  his  epaulettes,  an  angelically  sweet 
voice  asked: 

"Sir  officer!  will  you  have  the  kindness  to  tell  us  at 
what  point  of  the  road  we  are?" 

A  question  from  an  unknown  traveler,  and  that  trav- 
eler a  woman,  always  has  a  singular  charm,  and  her  least 
word  seems  to  promise  an  adventure;  but  if  the  lady 
appears  to  ask  protection,  relying  on  her  weakness  and 
her  ignorance  of  facts,  where  is  the  man  who  is  not 
slightly  inclined  to  build  a  castle  in  the  air,  with  a 
happy  ending  for  himself?  So  the  words,  "Monsieur 
l'orficier,"  and  the  ceremonious  form  of  the  question, 
excited  a  strange  disturbance  in  the  captain's  heart.  He 
tried  to  see  what  the  fair  traveler  was  like,  and  was 
completely  baffled,  a  jealous  veil  hiding  her  features 
from  him;  he  could  hardly  see  even  the  eyes,  though 
they  flashed  through  the  gauze  like  two  onyx  stones 
caught  by  the  sun. 

"You  are  now  a  league  distant  from  Alen9on,  madame, " 
said  he. 

"Alen^on,  already?"  And  the  unknown  lady  threw  her- 
self, or  let  herself  fall  back  in  the  carriage,  without 
further  reply. 

"Alen9on?"  repeated  the  other  girl,  as  if  waking  from 
sleep;  "you  will  see  our  country  again — 

She  looked  at  the  captain,  and  held  her  peace.  But 
Merle,  finding  himself  deceived  in  his  hope  of  seeing  the 


A   NOTION    OF    FOUCHfc'S  89 

fair  stranger,  set  himself  to  scan  her  companion.  She 
was  a  girl  of  about  six-and-twenty,  fair,  well  shaped, 
and  with  a  complexion  showing  the  clear  skin  and  brill- 
iant tints  which  distinguish  the  women  of  Valognes, 
Bayeux,  and  the  district  around  Alen9on.  The  glances 
of  her  blue  eyes  did  not  speak  wit,  but  a  resolute  tem- 
per, mingled  with  tenderness.  She  wore  a  gown  of  com- 
mon stuff,  and  her  hair  plainly  caught  up  under  a  cap,  in 
the  style  of  the  Pays  de  Caux,  gave  her  face  a  touch  of 
charming  simplicity.  Nor  was  her  general  air,  though 
it  lacked  the  conventional  distinction  of  society,  devoid 
of  the  dignity  natural  to  a  modest  young  girl  who  can 
survey  her  past  life  without  finding  anything  to  repent 
in  it.  At  a  glance  Merle  could  discover  in  her  a  country 
blossom  which,  though  transplanted  to  the  Parisian 
hot-houses,  where  so  many  scorching  rays  are  concen- 
trated, had  lost  nothing  of  its  bright  purity  or  of  its 
rustic  freshness.  The  young  girl's  unstudied  air,  and 
her  modest  looks,  told  him  that  she  did  not  desire  a 
listener;  and  he  had  no  sooner  retired  than  the  two  fair 
strangers  began,  in  a  low  voice,  a  conversation  whereof 
his  ear  could  scarcely  catch  the  bare  sound. 

"You  started  in  such  a  hurry,"  said  the  country  girl, 
"that  you  scarcely  took  time  to  dress  yourself.  You  are 
a  pretty  figure!  If  we  are  going  farther  than  Alenfon, 
we  really  must  make  a  fresh  toilette  there." 

"Oh,  oh,  Francine!  "  cried  the  stranger. 

"Yes?" 

"That  is  the  third  time  you  have  tried  to  fish  out  the 
end  and  object  of  our  journey." 

"Did  I  say  the  very  least  thing  to  deserve  that 
reproach?" 

"Oh!  I  saw  through  your  little  device.  Innocent  and 
simple  as  you  used  to  be,  you  have  learned  a  few  tricks 


go  THL    CHOUANS. 

in  my  scnool.  You  have  already  taken  a  dislike  to 
direct  questioning,  and  you  are  right,  child;  of  all 
known  manners  of  extracting  information,  it  is,  to  my 
thinking,  the  silliest." 

"Well,  then,"  went  on  Francine,  "as  nothing  can 
escape  you,  confess,  Marie,  would  not  your  behavior 
excite  the  curiosity  of  a  saint?  Yesterday  you  had  not  a 
penny,  to-day  your  pockets  are  full  of  gold.  They  have 
given  you  at  Mortagne  the  mail-coach  which  had  been 
robbed,  and  its  guard  killed;  you  have  an  escort  of  Gov- 
ernment troops,  and  you  have  in  your  suite  a  man  whom 
I  take  to  be  your  evil  angel." 

"What!  Corentin?"  said  the  young  stranger,  marking 
her  words  by  a  couple  of  changes  of  voice,  full  of  con- 
tempt— contempt  which  even  extended  to  the  gesture 
with  which  she  pointed  to  the  rider.  "Listen,  Fran- 
cine,"  she  continued;  "do  you  remember  Patriot,  the 
monkey  whom  I  taught  to  imitate  Danton,  and  who 
amused  us  so  much?" 

"Yes,   mademoiselle." 

"Well;    were  you  afraid  of  him?" 

"He  was  chained  up." 

"Well,  Corentin  is  muzzled,  child." 

"We  used,"  said  Francine,  "to  play  with  Patriot  for 
hours  together,  to  be  sure;  but  it  never  ended  without 
his  playing  us  some  ugly  trick;"  and  with  these  words 
she  fell  back  in  the  carriage,  close  to  her  mistress,  took 
her  hands  and  caressed  them  coaxingly,  saying  to  her  in 
affectionate  tones: 

"But  you  know  what  I  mean,  Marie,  and  you  will  not 
answer  me.  How  is  it  that  in  twenty-four  hours  after 
those  fits  of  sadness  which  grieved  me,  oh!  so  much,  you 
can  be  madly  merry,  just  as  you  were  when  you  talked 
of  killing  yourself?  Whence  this  change?  I  have  a 


A  NOTION  OF    FOUCHfi'S.  gj 

right  to  ask  you  to  let  me  see  a  little  of  your  heart.  It 
is  mine  before  it  is  anyone's;  for  never  will  you  be 
better  loved  than  I  love  you.  Speak,  mademoiselle." 

"Well,  Francine,  do  you  not  see  the  reasons  of  my 
gayety  all  round  us?  Look  at  the  yellowing  tufts  of  those 
distant  trees;  there  are  not  two  alike— at  a  distance  one 
might  think  them  a  piece  of  old  tapestry.  Look  at  those 
hedge-rows,  behind  which  we  may  meet  with  Chouans 
every  moment.  As  I  look  at  these  broom  bushes  I  think 
I  can  see  gun-barrels.  I  love  this  constant  peril  that 


surrounds  us.  Wherever  the  road  grows  a  little  gloomy 
I  expect  that  we  shall  hear  a  volley  in  a  moment;  and 
then  my  heart  beats,  and  a  new  sensation  stirs  me.  Nor 
is  it  either  the  tremor  of  fear  or  the  fluttering  of  pleas- 
ure; no!  it  is  something  better;  it  is  the  working  of  all 
that  is  active  in  me — it  is  life.  Should  I  not  be  merry 
when  I  feel  my  life  once  more  alive?" 


Q2  THE    CHOUANS- 

"Ah!  cruel  girl,  you  will  say  nothing?  Holy  Virgin!  " 
cried  Francine,  lifting  her  eyes  sorrowfully  to  heaven, 
"to  whom  will  she  confess  if  she  is  silent  to  me?" 

"Francine,"  said  the  stranger  gravely,  "I  cannot  reveal 
my  business  to  you.  It  is  something  terrible  this  time." 

"But  why  do  evil  when  you  know  that  you  are  doing 
it?" 

"What  would  you  have?  I  catch  myself  thinking  as 
if  I  were  fifty,  and  acting  as  if  I  were  fifteen.  You  have 
always  been  my  common  sense,  poor  girl!  but  in  this 
business  I  must  stifle  my  conscience.  And  yet,"  she 
said,  with  a  sigh,  after  an  interval,  "I  cannot  succeed  in 
doing  so.  Now,  how  can  you  ask  me  to  set  over  myself 
a  confessor  so  stern  as  you  are?" 

And  she  patted  her  hand  gently. 

"And  when  did  1  ever  reproach  you  with  what  you  have 
done?"  cried  Francine.  "Evil  itself  is  charming  in  you. 
Yes;  Saint  Anne  of  Auray  herself,  to  whom  I  pray  so 
hard  for  you,  would  give  you  pardon  for  all.  Besides, 
have  I  not  followed  you  on  this  journe)r  without  the  least 
knowledge  whither  you  are  going?"  and  she  kissed  her 
mistress'  hands  affectionately. 

"But,"  said  Marie,  "you  can  leave  me  if  your  con- 
science— 

"Come,  madame,  do  not  talk  like  that,"  said  Francine, 
making  a  grimace  of  vexation.  "Oh!  will  you  not  tell 
me?  " 

"I  will  tell  you  nothing,"  said  the  young  lady  firmly; 
"only  be  assured  of  this:  I  hate  my  enterprise  even  worse 
than  I  hate  the  man  whose  gilded  tongue  expounded  it 
to  me.  I  will  be  so  frank  with  you  as  to  confess  that  I 
would  never  have  submitted  to  their  will  if  I  had  not 
seen  in  the  matter,  shameful  farce  as  it  is,  a  mixture  of 
danger  and  of  romance  which  tempted  me.  Besides,  I 


A   NOTION  OF    FOUCHfi'S  93 

did  not  wish  to  leave  this  earth  of  ours  without  having 
tried  to  gather  flowers,  of  which  I  have  still  some  hope, 
were  I  to  perish  in  the  attempt.  But  remember,  as 
something  to  redeem  my  memory,  that  had  I  been  happy, 
the  sight  of  their  guillotine  ready  to  drop  on  my  head 
would  never  have  made  me  take  a  part  in  this  tragedy — 
for  tragedy  as  well  as  farce  it  is.  And  now,"  she  con- 
tinued with  a  gesture  of  disgust,  "if  they  changed  their 
minds  and  counter-ordered  the  plan,  I  would  throw  my- 
self into  the  Sarthe  this  moment,  and  it  would  not  be  a 
suicide;  for  I  have  never  yet  lived." 

''Oh!  Holy  Virgin  of  Auray!  pardon  her!" 
"What  are  you  afraid  of?  you  know  that  the  dull  alter- 
nations of  domestic  life  leave  my  passions  cold.  That 
is  ill  in  a  woman;  but  my  soul  has  gained  the  habit  of  a 
higher  kind  of  emotion,  able  to  support  stronger  trials. 
I  might  have  been  like  you,  a  gentle  creature.  Why  did 
I  rise  above  or  sink  below  the  level  of  my  sex?  Ah! 
what  a  happy  woman  is  General  Bonaparte's  wife!  I 
am  sure  to  die  young,  since  I  have  already  come  to  the 
point  of  not  blanching  at  a  pleasure  party  where  there  is 
blood  to  drink,  as  poor  Danton  used  to  say.  But  forget 
what  I  am  saying:  it  is  the  woman  fifty  years  old  in  me 
that  spoke.  Thank  God!  the  girl  of  fifteen  will  soon 
make  her  appearance  again." 

The  country  maid  shuddered.  She  alone  knew  the  im- 
petuous and  ungoverned  character  of  her  mistress.  She 
alone  was  acquainted  with  the  strangenesses  of  her  en- 
thusiastic soul,  with  the  real  feelings  of  the  woman  who, 
up  to  this  time,  had  seen  life  float  before  her  like  an  in 
tangible  shadow,  despite  her  constant  effort  to  seize  and 
fix  it.  After  lavishing  all  her  resources  with  no  return, 
she  had  remained  untouched  by  love.  But,  stung  by  a 
multitude  of  unfulfilled  desires,  weary  of  fighting  with- 


94  THE    CHOUANS. 

out  a  foe,  she  had  come  in  her  despair  to  prefer  good  to 
evil  when  it  offered  itself  in  the  guise  of  enjoyment, 
evil  to  good  when  there  was  a  spice  of  romance  in  it, 
ruin  to  easy-going  mediocrity  as  the  grander  of  the  two, 
the  dark  and  mysterious  prospect  of  death  to  a  life  bereft 
of  hope  or  even  of  suffering.  Never  was  such  a  powder 
magazine  ready  for  the  spark;  never  so  rich  a  banquet 
prepared  for  love  to  revel  in;  never  a  daughter  of  Eve 
with  more  gold  mingled  throughout  her  clay.  Francine, 
like  an  earthly  providence,  kept  a  watch  over  this 
strange  being,  whose  perfections  she  worshiped  and 
whose  restoration  to  the  celestial  choir  from  which  some 
sin  of  pride  seemed  to  have  banished  her  as  an  expia- 
tion, she  regarded  as  the  accomplishment  of  a  heavenly 
mission. 

"There  is  Alengon  steeple,"  said  the  rider,  drawing 
near  the  carriage. 

"I  see  it,"  answered  the  young  lady  dryly. 

"Very  well,"  quoth  he,  retiring  with  signs  of  obedi- 
ence not  the  less  absolute  for  his  disappointment. 

"Faster!  faster!"  said  the  lady  to  the  postilion;  "there 
is  nothing  to  fear  now.  Trot  or  gallop  if  you  can;  are 
we  not  in  Alenfon  streets?" 

As  she  passed  the  commandant,  she  cried  to  him  in  her 
sweet  voice:  "We  shall  meet  at  the  inn,  commandant; 
come  and  see  me  there." 

"Just  so!  "  replied  the  commandant.  "At  the  inni 
come  and  see  me!  that  is  the  way  the  creatures  talk  to  a 
demi -brigadier."  And  he  shook  his  fist  at  the  carriage 
which  was  rolling  rapidly  along  the  road. 

"Don't  complain,  commandant,"  laughed  Corentin,  who 
was  trying  to  make  his  horse  gallop  so  as  to  catch  the 
carriage  up.  "She  has  your  general's  commission  in  her 
sleeve." 


A  NOTION   OF    FOUCHfi'S.  95 

"Ah!"  growled  Hulot  to  his  friend;  "I  will  not  let 
these  gentry  make  an  ass  of  me  !  I  would  rather  pitch 
my  general's  uniform  into  a  ditch  than  gain  it  in  a 
woman's  chamber.  What  do  the  geese  mean?  do  you 
understand  the  thing,  you  fellows?" 

"Well,  yes,"  said  Merle;  "I  understand  that  she  is  the 
prettiest  woman  I  ever  saw.  I  think  you  have  mistaken 
the  phrase.  Perhaps  it  is  the  First  Consul's  wife?" 

"Bah!"  answered  Hulot.  "The  First  Consul's  wife  is 
an  old  woman,  and  this  is  a  young  one.  Besides,  my 
orders  from  the  minister  tell  me  that  her  name  is  Made- 
moiselle de  Verneuil.  She  is  a  ci-devant.  As  if  I  did 
not  know  it !  they  all  played  that  game  before  the  Rev- 
olution. You  could  become  a  demi-brigadier  then  in  two 
crotchets  and  six  quavers;  you  only  had  to  say  'My  soul !' 
to  them  prettily  two  or  three  times." 

While  each  soldier  stirred  his  stumps  (in  the  com- 
mandant's phrase),  the  ugly  vehicle  which  acted-as  mail- 
coach  had  quickly  gained  the  hotel  of  "The  Three  Moors," 
situated  in  the  middle  of  the  high  street  of  Alencon. 
The  clatter  and  rattle  of  the  shapeless  carriage  brought 
the  host  to  the  door-step.  Nobody  in  Alen9on  expected 
the  chance  of  the  mail-coach  putting  up  at  "The  Three 
Moors;  "  but  the  tragedy  which  had  happened  at  Mortagne 
made  so  many  people  follow  it  that  the  two  travelers, 
to  evade  the  general  curiosity,  slipped  into  the  kitchen, 
the  invariable  ante-chamber  of  all  western  inns;  and  the 
host  was  about,  after  scanning  the  carriage,  to  follow 
them,  when  the  postilion  caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"Attention  !  Citizen  Brutus, "  said  he;  "there  is  an  escort 
of  Blues  coming.  As  there  is  neither  driver  nor  mail- 
bags,  'tis  I  who  am  bringing  you  the  citizenesses.  They 
will  pay  you,  no  doubt,  like  ci-devant  princesses,  and 
so — " 


96  THE    CHOUANS 

"And  so  we  will  have  a  glass  of  wine  together  in  a 
minute,  my  boy,"  said  the  host. 

After  glancing  at  the  kitchen,  blackened  by  smoke, 
and  its  table  stained  by  uncooked  meat,  Mile,  de  Verneuil 
fled  like  a  bird  into  the  next  room,  for  she  liked  the 
kitchen  sights  and  smells  as  little  as  the  curiosity  of  a 
dirty  man-cook  and  a  short  stout  woman  who  were  star- 
ing at  her. 

"What  are  we  to  do,  wife?"  said  the  innkeeper.  "Who 
the  devil  would  have  thought  that  we  should  have  com- 
pany like  this  in  these  hard  times?  This  lady  will  get 
out  of  patience  before  I  can  serve  her  a  decent  breakfast. 
Faith!  I  have  a  notion:  as  they  are  gentlefolk,  I  will 
propose  that  the)'  should  join  the  person  upstairs, 
eh?" 

But  when  the  host  looked  for  his  new  guest  he  only 
found  Francine,  to  whom  he  said  in  a  low  tone,  and  tak- 
ing her  aside  to  the  back  of  the  kitchen,  which  looked 
towards  the  yard,  so  as  to  be  out  of  earshot:  "If  the 
ladies  would  like,  as  I  doubt  not,  to  eat  in  a  private 
room,  I  have  a  delicate  meal  all  ready  for  a  lady  and  her 
son.  The  travelers,"  added  he,  with  an  air  of  mystery, 
"are  not  likely  to  object  to  share  their  breakfast  with 
you.  They  are  people  of  quality." 

But  he  had  hardly  finished  his  sentence  when  he  felt  a 
slight  tap  from  a  whip-handle  on  his  back,  and  turning 
sharply  round,  he  saw  behind  him  a  short,  strongly-built 
man  who  had  noiselessly  issued  from  a  neighboring  room, 
and  whose  appearance  seemed  to  strike  terror  into  the 
plump  landlady,  the  cook,  and  the  scullion.  The  host  him- 
self grew  pale  as  he  turned  his  head  round;  but  the  little 
man  shook  the  hair  which  completely  covered  his  fore- 
head and  eyes,  stood  on  tiptoe  to  reach  the  host's  ear, 
and  said:  "You  know  what  any  imprudence  or  any  tale- 


A  NOTION  OF    FOUCHfi'S.  97 

bearing  means?  and  what  is  the  color  of  our  money  when 
we  pay  for  such  things?     We  don't  stint  it." 

And  he  added  to  his  words  a  gesture  which  made  a 
hideous  commentary  on  them.  Although  the  host' s  portly 
person  prevented  Francine  from  seeing  the  speaker,  she 
caught  a  word  or  two  of  the  sentences  which  he  had  whis- 
pered, and  remained  thunderstruck  as  she  heard  the 
harsh  tones  of  the  Breton's  voice.  While  all  besides 
were  in  consternation,  she  darted  towards  the  little  man; 
but  he,  whose  movements  had  the  celerity  of  a  wild 
animal's,  was  already  passing  out  by  a  side  door  into 
the  yard.  And  Francine  thought  she  must  have  been 
mistaken,  for  she  saw  nothing  but  what  seemed  the 
black  and  tan  skin  of  a  middle-sized  bear.  Startled,  she 
ran  to  the  window,  and  through  its  smoke-stained  glass 
gazed  at  the  stranger,  who  was  making  for  the  stable 
with  halting  steps.  Before  entering  it  he  sent  a  glance 
of  his  black  eyes  to  the  first  floor  of  the  inn,  and  then  to 
the  stage-coach,  as  if  he  wished  to  give  a  hint  of  impor- 
tance to  some  friend  about  the  carriage.  In  spite  of  the 
goatskins,  and  thanks  to  this  gesture,  which  revealed  his 
face,  Francine  was  able  to  recognize  by  his  enormous 
whip  and  his  gait — crawling,  though  agile  enough  at  need 
— the  Chouan  nicknamed  Marche-a-Terre.  And  she  could 
descry  him,  though  not  clearly,  across  the  dark  stable, 
where  he  lay  down  in  the  straw,  assuming  a  posture  in 
which  he  could  survey  everything  that  went  on  in  the 
inn.  Marche-a-Terre  had  curled  himself  up  in  such  a 
way  that  at  a  distance — nay,  even  close  at  hand — the  clev- 
erest spy  might  have  easily  taken  him  for  one  of  the  big 
carter's  dogs  that  sleep  coiled  round  with  mouth  on 
paw.  His  behavior  showed  Francine  that  he  had  not 
recognized  her;  and  in  the  ticklish  circumstances  wherein 
her  mistress  was  placed,  she  hardly  knew  whether  to  be 
7 


98  THE    CHOUANS. 

glad  or  sorry  for  it.  But  the  mysterious  relations 
between  the  Chouan's  threat  and  the  offer  of  the  host — 
an  offer  common  enough  with  innkeepers,  who  like  to  take 
toll  twice  on  the  same  goods — stimulated  her  curiosity. 
She  left  the  blurred  pane  through  which  she  had  been 
looking  at  the  shapeless  mass  which  in  the  darkness 
indicated  Marche-a-Terre's  position,  returned  towards 
the  innkeeper,  and  perceived  him  looking  like  a  man  who 
has  put  his  foot  in  it,  and  does  not  know  how  to  draw  it 
back.  The  Chouan's  gesture  had  struck  the  poor  man 
cold.  No  one  in  the  West  was  ignorant  of  the  cruel 
ingenuity  of  torture  with  which  the  King's  Huntsmen 
punished  those  suspected  of  mere  indiscretion,  and  the 
host  felt  their  knives  already  at  his  throat.  The  cook 
stared  with  horrified  glance  at  the  hearth  where  they  not 
seldom  roasted  the  feet  of  those  who  had  given  informa- 
tion against  them.  The  plump  little  landlady  held  a 
kitchen  knife  in  one  hand,  a  half-cut  apple  in  the  other^ 
and  gazed  aghast  at  her  husband,  while,  finally,  the 
scullion  tried  to  make  out  the  meaning  of  this  silent 
terror,  which  he  did  not  understand.  Francine's  curi- 
osity was  naturally  kindled  by  this  dumb  show,  where 
the  chief  actor,  though  not  present,  was  in  everyone's 
mind  and  sight.  The  girl  felt  rather  pleased  at  the 
Chouan's  terrible  power,  and  though  her  simple  char- 
acter did  not  comport  with  the  usual  tricks  of  a  waiting- 
maid,  she  had  for  the  moment  too  great  an  interest  in 
unraveling  the  secret  not  to  make  the  best  of  her  game. 

"Well,  mademoiselle  accepts  your  offer,"  she  said 
gravely  to  the  host,  who  started  as  if  suddenly  awakened 
by  the  words. 

"What  offer?"  asked  he,  with  real  surprise. 

"What  offer?"  asked  Mile,  de  Verneuil. 

"What  offer?"  asked  a  fourth  personage,  who  happened 


A  NOTION   OF    FOUCHfi'S.  99 

to  be  on  the  lowest  step  of  the  staircase,  and  who 
bounded  lightly  into  the  kitchen. 

"Why,  to  breakfast  with  your  people  of  quality,"  said 
Francine  impatiently. 

"Of  quality?"  repeated  the  person  who  had  come  from 
the  stairs,  in  an  ironical  and  satiric  tone.  "My  fine 
fellow,  that  seems  to  me  an  innkeeper's  joke,  and  a  bad 
one.  But  if  it  is  this  young  citizeness  that  you  want  to 
give  us  as  guest,  one  would  be  a  fool  to  refuse,  my  good 
man,"  said  he,  looking  at  Mile,  de  Verneuil.  And  he 
added,  clapping  the  stupefied  host  on  the  shoulder,  "In 
my  mother's  absence  I  accept." 

The  giddy  grace  of  youth  hid  the  insolent  pride  of 
these  words,  which  naturally  drew  the  attention  of  all  the 
actors  in  the  scene  to  the  new  arrival.  Then  the  host 
assumed  the  air  of  a  Pilate  trying  to  wash  his  hands  of 
the  death  of  Christ,  stepped  back  two  paces  towards  his 
plump  spouse,  and  said  in  her  ear,  "I  call  you  to  witness, 
that  if  any  harm  happens,  it  is  not  my  fault.  But," 
added  he  still  lower,  "to  make  sure,  go  and  tell  M. 
Marche-a-Terre  all  about  it." 

The  traveler,  a  young  man  of  middle  height,  wore  a 
blue  coat  and  long  black  gaiters,  which  rose  above  his 
knees,  over  breeches  also  of  blue  cloth.  This  plain 
uniform,  devoid  of  epaulettes,  was  that  of  the  students 
of  the  fecole  Polytechnique.  At  a  glance  Mile,  de 
Verneuil  could  distinguish  under  the  sober  costume  an 
elegant  shape  and  the  je  ne  sais  quoi  which  announces 
native  nobility.  The  young  man's  face,  not  striking  at 
first  sight,  soon  became  noticeable  owing  to  a  certain 
conformation  of  feature  which  showed  a  soul  capable  of 
great  things.  A  brown  complexion,  fair  curly  hair,  a 
finely-cut  nose,  motions  full  of  ease — all,  in  short, 
declared  in  him  a  course  of  life  guided  by  lofty  senti- 


IOO  THE  CHOUANS. 

ments  and  the  habit  of  command.  But  the  most  unmis- 
takable symptoms  of  his  talents  were  a  chin  of  the  Bona- 
parte type,  and  a  lower  lip  which  joined  the  upper  with 
such  a  graceful  curve  as  the  acanthus  leaf  under  a 
Corinthian  capital  describes.  Nature  had  clothed  these 
two  features  with  an  irresistibly  winning  grace. 

"The  young  man  looks,  for  a  Republican,  remarkably 
like  a  gentleman,"  said  Mile,  de  Verneuil  to  herself.  To 
see  all  this  at  a  glance,  to  be  seized  with  the  desire  of 
pleasing,  to  bend  her  head  gracefully  to  one  side,  smile 
coquettishly,  and  dart  one  of  those  velvet  glances  which 
would  rekindle  a  heart  dead  to  love,  to  drop  over  her 
almond-shaped  black  eyes  deep  lids  whose  lashes,  long 
and  bent,  made  a  brown  line  on  her  cheek,  to  devise  the 
most  melodious  tones  with  which  her  voice  could  infuse 
a  subtle  charm  into  the  commonplace  phrase,  "We  are 
very  much  obliged  to  you,  sir," — all  this  manoeuvring 
did  not  take  her  the  time  which  it  takes  to  describe  it. 
Then  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  addressing  the  host,  inquired 
after  her  room,  perceived  the  staircase,  and  disappeared 
up  it  with  Francine,  leaving  the  stranger  to  settle  for 
himself  whether  the  reply  implied  acceptance  or  refusal. 

"Who  is  the  woman?"  said  the  student  of  the  Ecole 
Polytechnique  briskly,  to  the  motionless  and  ever  more 
stupefied  host. 

"Tis  the  citizeness  Verneuil,"  replied  Corentin,  in  a 
sour  tone,  scanning  the  young  man  jealously,  "and  she 
is  a  ci-Jcvanl.  What  do  you  want  with  her?" 

The  stranger,  who  was  humming  a  Republican  song, 
lifted  his  head  haughtily  towards  Corentin.  The  two 
young  men  glared  at  each  other  for  a  moment  like  two 
gamecocks  on  the  point  of  fighting;  and  the  glance  was 
tin;  seed  of  an  eternal  and  mutual  hatred.  Corentin' s 
green  e\  es  announced  spite  and  treachery  as  clearly  as 


A    NOTION    OF    FOUCHfi's.  IOI 

the  soldier's  blue  ones  promised  frankness.  The  one 
was  born  to  noble  manners,  the  other  had  nothing  but 
acquired  insinuation.  The  one  towered,  the  other 
crouched.  The  one  commanded  respect,  and  the  other 
tried  to  obtain  it.  The  motto  of  the  one  should  have 
been  "Gain  the  day!"  of  the  other,  "Share  the  booty!" 

"Is  Citizen  du  Gua  Saint-Cyr  here?"  said  a  peasant 
who  entered. 

"What  do  you  want  with  him?"  said  the  young  man, 
coming  forward. 

The  peasant  bowed  low,  and  handed  him  a  letter, 
which  the  cadet  threw  into  the  fire  after  he  had  read 
it.  By  way  of  answer  he  nodded,  and  the  man  disap- 
peared. 

"You  come  from  Paris,  no  doubt,  citizen,"  said  Coren- 
tin,  coming  towards  the  stranger  with  a  certain  easiness 
of  manner,  and  with  an  air  of  suppleness  and  concilia- 
tion which  seemed  to  be  more  than  the  Citizen  du  Gua 
could  bear. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  dryly. 

"And  of  course  you  have  a  commission  in  the  artil- 
lery?" 

"No,  citizen;    in  the  navy." 

"Ah!  "  said  Corentin  carelessly,  "then  you  are  going  to 
Brest?" 

But  the  young  sailor  turned  abruptly  on  his  heel  with- 
out deigning  to  answer,  and  soon  disappointed  the  fond 
hopes  which  his  face  had  inspired  in  Mile,  de  Verneuil. 
He  busied  himself  in  ordering  his  breakfast  with  the 
levity  of  a  child,  cross-examined  the  host  and  hostess  as 
to  their  receipts,  wondered  at  provincial  ways  like  a 
Parisian  just  extracted  from  his  enchanted  shell,  gave 
himself  the  airs  and  megrims  of  a  coquette,  and,  in  short, 
showed  as  little  strength  of  character  as  his  face  and 


102  THE    CHOUANS. 

manners  had  at  first  promised  much.  Corentin  smiled 
with  pity  when  he  saw  him  make  faces  as  he  tasted  the 
best  cider  in  Normandy. 

"Bah!  "  cried  he;  "how  can  you  people  drink  that  stuff? 
there  is  food  and  drink  both  in  it.  The  Republic  may 
well  be  shy  of  a  country  where  they  make  the  vintage  with 
blows  of  a  pole,  and  shoot  travelers  from  behind  a 
hedge  on  the  high  roads.  Don't  put  doctor's  stuff  like 
that  on  the  table  for  us;  but  give  us  some  good  Bor- 
deaux, white  and  red  too.  And  be  sure  there  is  a  good 
fire  upstairs.  These  good  folk  seem  to  be  quite  behind 
the  times  in  matter  of  civilization.  Ah!"  he  went  on 
with  a  sigh,  "there  is  only  one  Paris  in  the  world,  and 
great  pity  it  is  that  one  can't  take  it  to  sea  with  one. 
Why,  you  spoil-sauce!  "  cried  he  to  the  cook,  "you  are 
putting  vinegar  in  that  fricasseed  chicken  when  )7ou 
have  got  lemons  at  hand.  And  as  for  you,  Mrs.  Land- 
lady, you  have  given  us  such  coarse  sheets  that  I  have  not 
slept  a  wink  all  night." 

Then  he  began  to  play  with  a  large  cane,  going  with 
childish  exactitude  through  the  evolutions  which,  as 
they  were  performed  with  greater  or  less  finish  and  skill, 
indicated  the  higher  or  lower  rank  of  a  young  man  in 
the  army  of  Incroyables. 

"And  'tis  with  dandies  like  that,"  said  Corentin  confi- 
dentially to  the  host,  scanning  his  face  as  he  spoke, 
"that  they  hope  to  pick  up  the  Republic's  navy!" 

"That  fellow,"  whispered  the  young  man  in  the  host- 
ess' ear,  "is  a  spy  of  Fouche's.  'Police'  is  written  on 
his  face,  and  I  could  swear  that  the  stain  on  his  chin  is 
Paris  mud.  But  two  can  play — 

As  he  spoke,  a  lady  towards  whom  the  sailor  ran,  with 
every  mark  of  outward  respect,  entered  the  inn  kitchen. 


A    NOTION    OF   FOUCHfc's.  103 

"Dear    mamma! "    he    said,    "come    here,    I    pray  you.      I 
think  I  have  mustered  some  guests  in  your  absence." 

"Guests!"   she  answered:    "what  madness!" 
'Tis  Mile,  de  Verneuil,"  he    replied,  in  a  low  voice. 

"She  perished  on  the  scaffold  after  the  affair  at  Save- 
nay,"  said  his  mother  sharply  to  him;  "she  had  gone  to 
Le  Mans  to  rescue  her  brother  the  Prince  of  Loudon. " 

"You  are  mistaken,  madame,"  said  Corentin  gently,  but 
laying  a  stress  on  the  word  madame;  "there  are  two  Dem- 
oiselles de  Verneuil.  Great  houses  always  have  several 
branches. " 

The  strange  lady,  surprised  at  this  familiar  address, 
recoiled  a  step  or  two  as  if  to  survey  this  unexpected 
interlocutor;  she  fixed  on  him  her  black  eyes  full  of  that 
quick  shrewdness  which  comes  so  naturally  to  women, 
and  seemed  trying  to  find  out  with  what  object  he  had 
just  testified  to  the  existence  of  Mile,  de  Verneuil.  At 
the  same  time,  Corentin,  who  had  been  privately  study- 
ing the  lady,  denied  her  the  pleasures  of  maternity,  while 
granting  her  those  of  love.  He  was  too  gallant  to  allow 
even  the  happiness  of  possessing  a  son  twenty  years  old 
to  a  lady  whose  dazzling  skin,  whose  arched  and  rich 
eyebrows,  with  eyelashes  still  in  good  condition,  at- 
tracted his  admiration,  while  her  luxuriant  black  hair, 
parted  in  bands  on  her  forehead,  set  off  the  freshness  of 
a  face  that  showed  mental  power.  Some  faint  wrinkles 
on  the  forehead,  far  from  proclaiming  age,  betrayed  the 
passions  of  youth,  and  if  the  piercing  eyes  were  a  little 
dimmed,  the  affection  might  have  come  either  from  the 
fatigues  of  travel  or  from  a  too  frequent  indulgence  in 
pleasure.  Lastly,  Corentin  noticed  that  the  stranger 
was  wrapped  in  a  mantle  of  English  stuff,  and  that  the 
shape  of  her  bonnet,  apparently  also  foreign,  did  not 
agree  with  any  of  the  fashions  then  called  a  la  Grccque, 


104  THE    CHOUANS. 

which  still  ruled  Parisian  toilettes.  Now,  Corentin  was 
one  of  those  people  who  are  characteristically  inclined  to 
the  constant  suspicion  of  ill  rather  than  good,  and  he  im- 
mediately conceived  doubts  as  to  the  patriotism  of  the 
two  travelers.  On  her  side,  the  lady,  who  had  also  and 
with  equal  swiftness  taken  observations  of  Corentin' s 
person,  turned  to  her  son  with  a  meaning  look,  which 
could  be  pretty  faithfully  worded,  "Who  is  this  odd  fish? 
is  he  on  our  side?"  To  which  unspoken  question  the 
young  sailor  replied  with  a  look  and  gesture  signifying 
"Faith!  I  know  nothing  at  all  about  him,  and  I  doubt 
him  more  than  you  do."  Then,  leaving  it  to  his  mother 
to  guess  the  riddle,  he  turned  to  the  hostess  and  said  in 
her  ear,  "Try  to  find  out  who  this  rascal  is — whether  he 
is  really  in  the  young  lady's  train,  and  why." 

"So,"  said  Madame  du  Gua,  looking  at  Corentin,  "you 
are  sure,  citizen,  that  there  is  a  Mile,  de  Verneuil  liv- 
ing?" 

"She  has  as  certain  an  existence  in  flesh  and  blood, 
madamc,  as  the  Citizen  du  Gua  Saint-Cyr. " 

The  answer  had  a  touch  of  profound  irony,  which  the 
lady  alone  understood;  and  anybody  else  would  have  been 
put  out  of  countenance  by  it.  Her  son  directed  a  sudden 
and  steady  gaze  at  Corentin,  who  pulled  out  his  watch 
coolly,  without  appearing  to  dream  of  the  anxiety  which 
his  answer  produced.  But  the  lady,  disquieted  and  de- 
sirous of  knowing  at  once  whether  the  phrase  meant  mis- 
chief, or  whether  it  was  a  mere  chance  utterance,  said  to 
Corentin,  in  the  most  natural  way  in  the  world: 

"Good  heavens!  how  unsafe  the  roads  are!  We  were 
attacked  beyond  Mortagne  by  Chouans,  and  my  son  was 
nearly  killed  in  defending  me.  He  had  two  balls  through 
his  hat  ! " 

"What,  madame?  you  were  in  the  coach  which  the  brig- 


A   NOTION    OF    FOUCH£'S.  105 

ands  robbed  in  spite  of  the  escort,  and  which  has  just 
brought  us  here?  you  ought  to  know  the  carriage,  then. 
Why,  they  told  me,  as  I  went  through  Mortagne,  that 
there  were  two  thousand  Chouans  present  at  the  attack 
on  the  coach,  and  that  every  soul  in  it,  even  the  pas- 
sengers, had  perished.  This  is  the  way  people  write 
history!" 

The  gossiping  tone  which  Corentin  affected,  and  his 
simple  air,  made  him  look  like  a  frequenter  of  Little 
Provence  who  had  learned  with  sorrow  the  falsity  of 
some  bit  of  political  news. 

"Alas!  madame, "  he  went  on,  "if  travelers  get  their 
throats  cut  so  near  Paris,  what  must  be  the  danger  of  the 
roads  in  Brittany?  Faith!  I'll  go  back  to  Paris  myself 
without  venturing  further!" 

"Is  Mile,  de  Verneuil  young  and  pretty?"  asked  the 
lady,  struck  by  a  sudden  thought  and  addressing  the 
hostess.  But  as  she  spoke  the  host  cut  short  the  conver- 
sation, which  was  almost  painfully  interesting  to  the 
three  speakers,  by  announcing  that  breakfast  was  ready. 
The  young  sailor  offered  his  hand  to  his  mother  with  an 
affectation  of  familiarity.  This  confirmed  the  suspicions 
of  Corentin,  to  whom  he  said  aloud,  as  he  made  for  the 
stair: 

"Citizen,  if  you  are  in  the  company  of  Mile,  de  Ver- 
neuil, and  if  she  accepts  mine  host's  proposal,  make 
yourself  at  home." 

Although  these  words  were  spoken  in  a  cavalier  fash- 
ion, and  not  very  obligingly,  Corentin  went  upstairs. 

The  young  man  pressed  the  lady's  hand  hard;  and 
when  the  Parisian  was  some  half  dozen  steps  behind,  he 
whispered,  "See  what  inglorious  risks  your  rash  plans 
expose  us  to!  if  we  are  found  out,  how  can  we  escape? 
and  what  a  part  you  are  making  me  play!  " 


106  THE    CHOUANS. 

The  three  found  themselves  in  a  pretty  large  room,  and 
it  did  not  need  great  experience  of  travel  in  the  West 
to  see  that  the  innkeeper  had  lavished  all  his  resources, 
and  provided  unusual  luxuries  for  the  reception  of  his 
guests.  The  table  was  laid  with  care,  the  heat  of  a 
large  fire  had  driven  out  the  damp,  and  the  linen,  the 
chairs,  and  the  covers  were  not  intolerably  dirty.  There- 
fore Corentin  could  see  that  the  host  had,  as  the  vernac- 
ular has  it,  turned  his  house  inside  out  to  please  the 
strangers. 

"That  means,"  said  he  to  himself,  "that  these  people 
are  not  what  they  pretend.  This  young  fellow  is  a  keen 
hand;  I  thought  he  was  a  fool,  but  now  I  take  him  to  be 
quite  a  match  in  sharpness  for  myself." 

The  young  sailor,  his  mother,  and  Corentin  waited  for 
Mile,  de  Verneuil,  while  the  host  went  to  inform  her 
that  they  were  ready;  but  the  fair  traveler  did  not  make 
her  appearance.  The  student  of  the  ficole  Polytech- 
nique,  guessing  that  she  might  be  making  objections, 
left  the  room  humming  the  song,  "Veillons  au  salut  de 
P empire, "  and  went  towards  Mile,  de  Verneuil' s  cham- 
ber, stimulated  by  a  desire  to  conquer  her  scruples, 
and  to  bring  her  with  him.  Perhaps  he  wished  merely 
to  resolve  the  suspicions  which  disturbed  him;  perhaps 
to  try  upon  this  stranger  the  fascination  which  every  man 
prides  himself  on  being  able  to  exert  over  a  pretty 
woman.  "If  that  is  a  Republican,"  thought  Corentin, 
as  he  saw  him  leave  the  room,  "may  I  be  hanged!  his 
very  shoulders  move  like  a  courtier's.  And  if  that  is  his 
mother,"  continued  he,  looking  at  Madame  du  Gua,  "I 
am  the  pope!  I  have  got  hold  of  some  Chouans ;  let  us 
make  sure  of  what  their  quality  is." 

The  door  soon  opened,  and  the  young  sailor  entered, 
leading  by  the  hand  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  whom  he  ushered 


A    NOTION    OF    FOUCHE'S.  107 

to  the  table  with  an  air  self -satisfied,  but  full  of  cour- 
tesy. The  hour  which  had  passed  away  had  not  been 
time  lost  in  the  devil's  service.  With  Francine's  assist- 
ance, Mile,  de  Verneuil  had  arrayed  herself  for  battle  in 
a  traveling  costume  more  dangerous  perhaps  than  a  ball- 
dress  itself.  The  simplicity  of  it  had  the  attractive 
charm  resulting  from  the  art  with  which  a  woman,  fair 
enough  to  dispense  with  ornaments  altogether,  knows 
how  to  reduce  her  toilette  to  the  condition  of  a  merely 
secondary  charm.  She  wore  a  green  dress  exquisitely 
cut,  the  frogged  spencer  purposely  showing  her  shape  to 
an  extent  almost  unbecoming  in  a  young  girl,  and  not 
concealing  either  her  willowy  waist,  her  elegant  bust, 
or  the  grace  of  her  movements.  She  entered  with  the 
agreeable  smile  naturally  indulged  in  by  women  who  can 
show  between  their  rosy  lips  an  even  range  of  teeth  as 
clear  as  porcelain,  and  in  their  cheeks  a  pair  of  dimples 
as  fresh  as  those  of  a  child.  As  she  had  laid  aside  the 
traveling  wrap  which  had  before  concealed  her  almost 
entirely  from  the  sailor's  gaze,  she  had  no  difficulty  in 
setting  at  work  the  thousand  little  innocent  seeming 
tricks  by  which  a  woman  sets  off  and  exhibits  for  admira- 
tion the  beauties  of  her  face  and  the  graceful  carriage  of 
her  head.  Her  air  and  her  toilette  matched  so  well,  and 
made  her  look  so  much  younger,  that  Madame  du  Gua 
thought  she  might  be  going  too  far  in  giving  her  twenty 
years.  So  coquettish  a  toilette,  one  so  evidently  made 
with  the  desire  of  pleasing,  might  naturally  excite  the 
young  man's  hopes.  But  Mile,  de  Verneuil  merely 
bowed  to  him  with  a  languid  inclination  of  the  head, 
hardly  turning  towards  him,  and  seemed  to  drop  his  hand 
in  a  fashion  so  easy  and  careless,  that  it  put  him  com- 
pletely out  of  countenance.  The  strangers  could  hardly 
attribute  this  reserve  either  to  distrust  or  to  coquetry;  it 


108  THE    CHOUANS. 

seemed  rather  a  natural  or  assumed  indifference,  while 
the  innocent  air  of  the  traveler's  face  made  it  impene- 
trable. Nor  did  she  let  any  determination  towards  con- 
quest appear;  the  pretty,  seductive  manner  which  had 
already  deceived  the  young  sailor's  self-love  seemed  a 
gift  of  nature.  So  the  stranger  took  his  own  chair  with 
something  like  vexation. 

Mile,  de  Verneuil  took  Francine  by  the  hand,  and 
addressing  Madame  du  Gua,  said  in  an  insinuating 
voice:  "Madame,  will  you  be  so  good  as  to  permit  this 
maid  of  mine,  whom  I  look  on  rather  as  a  friend  than  as 
a  servant,  to  eat  with  us?  In  these  stormy  times 
devoted  service  can  only  be  repaid  by  affection.  Nay,  is 
it  not  all  that  we  have  left?" 

Madame  du  Gua  replied  to  this  last  phrase,  pronounced 
in  a  low  voice,  with  a  half-courtesy,  rather  stiff  in  man- 
ner, and  betraying  her  disappointment  at  meeting  so 
pretty  a  woman,  Then,  leaning  towards  her  son's  ear, 
"Ho!"  said  she,  " 'stormy  times,'  'devotion,'  'madame,' 
and  'servant!'  She  cannot  be  Mile,  de  Verneuil;  she 
must  be  some  girl  sent  by  Fouch£. " 

The  guests  were  about  to  take  their  places,  when  Mile, 
de  Verneuil's  eyes  fell  on  Corentin.  He  was  still 
minutely  scanning  the  two  strangers,  who  appealed  un- 
comfortable enough  under  his  gaze. 

"Citizen,"  she  said,  "I  hope  you  are  too  well  bred  to 
dog  my  steps  in  this  way.  When  the  Republic  sent  my 
family  to  the  scaffold,  it  was  not  magnanimous  enough  to 
appoint  a  guardian  over  me.  Although  with  unheard-of 
and  chivalrous  gallantry  you  have  attached  yourself  to  me 
against  my  will,"  and  she  heaved  a  sigh,  "I  am  resolved 
not  to  allow  the  cares  of  guardianship  which  you  lavish 
on  me  to  be  a  cause  of  inconvenience  to  yourself.  I  am 
in  safc-ty  here;  you  may  leave  me  as  I  am." 


A    NOTION   OF    FOUCHfi's. 


109 


And  she  darted  at  him  a  steady  glance  of  contempt. 
Corentin  did  not  fail  to  understand  her.  He  checked  a 
smile  which  almost  curled  the  corners  of  his  cunning 
lips,  and  bowed  to  her  in  the  most  respectful  style. 

"Citizeness, "  said  he,  "it  will  always  be  a  happiness 
to  me  to  obey  you.  Beauty  is  the  only  queen  to  whose 
service  a  true  Republican  may  willingly  submit." 

As  she  saw  him  leave  the  room,  Mile,  de  Verneuil's 
eyes  gleamed  with  joy  so  unaffected,  and  she  directed 
towards  Francine  a  meaning  smile  expressing  so  much 
satisfaction,  that  Madame  du  Gua,  though  her  jealousy 
had  made  her  watchful,  felt  inclined  to  discard  the  sus- 
picions with  which  Mile,  de  Verneuil's  extreme  beauty 
had  inspired  her.  "Perhaps  she  is  really  Mile,  de 
Verneuil,"  whispered  she  to  her  son. 

"And  her  escort?"  replied  the  young  man,  whom  pique 
inspired  with  prudence.  "Is  she  a  prisoner  or  a  protegee, 
a  friend  or  foe  of  the  government?" 

Madame  du  Gua  winked  slightly,  as  though  to  say 
that  she  knew  how  to  discover  this  secret.  But  the 
departure  of  Corentin  seemed  to  soften  the  mistrust  of 
the  sailor,  whose  face  lost  its  stern  look.  He  bent  on 
Mile,  de  Verneuil  glances  which  rather  showed  an  im- 
moderate passion  for  women  in  general  than  the  respect- 
ful ardor  of  dawning  love.  But  the  young  lady  only 
became  more  circumspect  in  her  demeanor,  and  reserved 
her  amiability  for  Madame  du  Gua.  The  young  man, 
sulking  by  himself,  endeavored  in  his  vexation  to  affect 
indifference  in  his  turn.  But  Mile,  de  Verneuil  appeared 
not  to  notice  his  behavior,  and  showed  herself  ingenuous 
but  not  timid,  and  reserved  without  prudery.  Thus  this 
party  of  apparent  incompatibles  showed  considerable 
coolness  one  to  another,  producing  even  a  certain  awk- 
wardness and  constraint,  destructive  of  the  pleasure 


110  THE    CHOUANS. 

which  both  Mile,  de  Verneuil  and  the  young  sailor  had 
promised  themselves.  But  women  possess  such  a  free- 
masonry of  tact  and  manners,  such  close  community  of 
nature,  and  such  lively  desire  for  the  indulgence  of 
sensibility,  that  they  are  always  able  to  break  the  ice 
on  such  occasions.  The  two  fair  guests,  suddenly  and  as 
though  by  common  consent,  began  gently  to  rally  their 
solitary  cavalier,  and  to  vie  with  each  other  in  jests  and 
little  attentions  towards  him;  their  agreement  in  so 
doing  putting  them  on  easy  terms,  so  that  words  and 
looks  which,  while  the  constraint  lasted,  would  have  had 
some  special  meaning,  lost  their  importance.  In  short, 
half  an  hour  had  not  passed  before  the  two  women, 
already  sworn  foes  at  heart,  became  in  appearance  the 
best  friends  in  the  world.  Yet  the  young  sailor  found 
himself  as  much  vexed  by  Mile,  de  Verneuil's  ease  as  he 
had  been  by  her  reserve,  and  he  was  so  chagrined  that, 
in  a  fit  of  silent  anger,  he  regretted  having  shared  his 
breakfast  with  her. 

"Madame,"  said  Mile,  de  Verneuil  to  Madame  du 
Gua,  "is  your  son  always  as  grave  as  he  is  now?" 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  replied,  "I  was  asking  myself  what 
is  the  good  of  a  fleeting  happiness.  The  secret  of  my  sad- 
ness lies  in  the  vividness  of  my  enjoyment.  ' 

"Compliments  of  this  sort,"  said  she,  laughing,  "smack 
rather  of  the  court  than  of  the  Ecole  Polytechnique. " 

"Yet  he  has  but  expressed  a  very  natural  feeling, 
mademoiselle,"  said  Madame  du  Gua,  who  had  her  rea- 
sons for  wishing  to  keep  on  terms  with  the  stranger. 

"Well,  then,  laugh  a  little,"  said  Mile,  de  Verneuil, 
with  a  smile,  to  the  young  man.  "What  do  you  look  like 
\\hcn  you  weep,  if  what  you  are  pleased  to  call  happi- 
ness makes  you  look  so  solemn?" 

The  smile,  accompanied  as  it  was  by  a  glance  of  provo- 


A   NOTION    OF    FOUCHfi's.  Ill 

cation,  which  was  a  little  out  of  keeping  with  her  air  of 
innocence,  made  the  young  man  pluck  up  hope.  But, 
urged  by  that  nature  which  always  makes  a  woman  go 
too  far,  or  not  far  enough,  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  who  one 
moment  seemed  actually  to  take  possession  of  the  young 
man  by  a  glance  sparkling  with  all  the  promises  of 
love,  the  next  met  his  gallantries  with  cold  and  severe 
modesty — the  common  device  under  which  women  are 
wont  to  hide  their  real  feelings.  Once,  and  once  only, 
when  each  thought  the  other's  eyelids  were  drooping, 
they  exchanged  their  real  thoughts.  But  they  were  as 
quick  to  obscure  as  to  communicate  this  light,  which,  as 
it  lightened  their  hearts,  also  disturbed  their  composure. 
As  though  ashamed  of  having  said  so  much  in  a  single 
glance,  they  dared  not  look  again  at  each  other.  Mile, 
de  Verneuii,  anxious  to  alter  the  stranger's  opinion  of 
her,  shut  herself  up  in  cool  politeness,  and  even  seemed 
impatient  for  the  end  of  the  meal. 

"You  must  have  suffered  much  in  prison,  mademoi- 
selle?" said  Madame  du  Gua. 

"Alas!  madame,  it  does  not  seem  to  me  that  I  am  out 
of  prison  yet." 

"Then,  is  your  escort  intended  to  guard  or  watch  you, 
mademoiselle?  Are  you  an  object  of  affection  or  of  sus- 
picion to  the  Republic?' 

Mile,  de  Verneuil  felt  instinctively  that  Madame  du 
Gua  wished  her  little  good,  and  was  put  on  her  guard  by 
the  question.  "Madame,"  she  answered,  "I  am  really 
not  myself  quite  sure  of  the  nature  of  my  relations  with 
the  Republic  at  this  moment." 

"Perhaps  you  inspire  it  with  terror,"  said  the  young 
man,  half  ironically. 

"We  had  better  respect  mademoiselle's  secrets,"  said 
Madame  du  Gua. 


112  THE   CHOUANS. 

"Oh!  madame,  there  is  not  much  interest  in  the  secrets 
of  a  young  girl  who  as  yet  knows  nothing  of  life  save  its 
misfortunes." 

"But,"  answered  Madame  du  Gua,  in  order  to  keep  up 
a  conversation  which  might  tell  her  what  she  wished  to 
know,  "the  First  Consul  seems  to  be  excellently  dis- 
posed. Do  they  not  say  that  he  is  going  to  suspend  the 
laws  against  emigrants?" 

"Yes,  madame,"  said  she,  with  perhaps  too  much  eager- 
ness; "but,  if  so,  why  are  Vendee  and  Brittany  being 
roused  to  insurrection?  Why  set  France  on  fire?" 

This  generous  and  apparently  self-reproachful  cry 
startled  the  sailor.  He  gazed  scrutinizingly  at  Mile, 
de  Verneuil,  but  could  not  descry  any  expression  of 
enmity  or  the  reverse  on  her  face.  Its  delicate  covering 
of  bright  skin  told  no  tales,  and  an  unconquerable  curios- 
ity helped  to  give  a  sudden  increase  to  the  interest 
which  strong  desire  had  already  made  him  feel  in  this 
strange  creature. 

"But,"  she  went  on,  after  a  pause,  "are  you  going  to 
Mayenne,  madame?" 

"Yes,  mademoiselle,"  replied  the  young  man  with  an 
air  as  if  to  say,  "What  then?" 

"Well,  madame,"  continued  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  "since 
your  son  is  in  the  Republic's  service — 

She  pronounced  these  words  with  an  air  of  outward 
indifference;  but  fixing  on  the  two  strangers  one  of  those 
furtive  glances  of  which  women  and  diplomatists  have  the 
secret,  she  continued,  "You  must  be  in  dread  of  the 
Chouans,  and  an  escort  is  not  a  thing  to  be  despised. 
vSince  we  have  already  become  as  it  were  fellow-travelers, 
come  with  me  to  Mayenne." 

Mother  and  son  hesitated,  ,and  seemed  to  consult  each 
other. 


A    NOTION   OF    FOUCHfi'S.  113 

"It  is  perhaps  imprudent,"  said  the  young  man,  "to 
confess  that  business  of  the  greatest  importance  requires 
our  presence  to-night  in  the  neighborhood  of  Fougeres, 
and  that  we  have  not  yet  found  a  conveyance;  but  ladies 
are  so  naturally  generous  that  I  should  be  ashamed  not 
to  show  confidence  in  you.  Nevertheless,"  he  added, 
"before  putting  ourselves  into  your  hands  we  have  a 
right  to  know  whether  we  are  likely  to  come  safe  out  of 
them.  Are  you  the  mistress  or  the  slave  of  your  Repub- 
lican escort?  Excuse  a  young  sailor's  frankness,  but  I 
am  unable  to  help  seeing  something  rather  singular  in 
your  position." 

"We  live  in  a  time,  sir,  when  nothing  that  occurs  is 
not  singular;  so,  believe  me,  you  may  accept  without 
scruple.  Above  all,"  added  she,  iaying  stress  on  her 
words,  "you  need  fear  no  treachery  in  an  offer  made  to 
you  honestly  by  a  person  who  does  not  identify  herself 
with  political  hatreds." 

"A  journey  so  made  will  not  lack  its  dangers,"  said 
he,  charging  his  glance  with  a  meaning  which  gave  point 
to  this  commonplace  reply. 

"What  more  are  you  afraid  of?"  asked  she,  with  a 
mocking  smile;  "/can  see  no  danger  for  anyone." 

"Is  she  who  speaks  the  same  woman  who  just  now 
seemed  to  share  my  desires  in  a  look?"  said  the  young 
man  to  himself.  "\Vhat  a  tone!  she  must  be  laying 
some  trap  for  me. ' 

At  the  very  same  moment  the  clear,  piercing  hoot  of 
an  owl,  which  seemed  to  have  perched  on  the  chimney- 
top,  quivered  through  the  air  like  a  sinister  warning. 

"What   is  that?"  said  Mile,   de  Verncuil.      "Our  jour- 
ney will  not  begin  with  lucky  omens.      But  how  do  you 
get  owls  here  that    hoot    in    full    day-time?"  asked  she, 
with  an  astonished  look. 
8 


IT4  THE    CHOUANS. 

"It  happens  sometimes,"  said  the  young  man  coolly. 
"Mademoiselle,"  he  continued,  "may  we  not  bring  you 
bad  luck?  was  not  that  your  thought?  Let  us,  then,  not 
be  fellow-travelers." 

He  said  this  with  a  quiet  reticence  of  manner  which 
surprised  Mile,  de  Verneuil. 

"Sir,"  she  said,  with  quite  aristocratic  insolence,  "I 
have  not  the  least  desire  to  put  any  constraint  on  you. 
Let  us  keep  the  very  small  amount  of  liberty  which  the 
Republic  leaves  us.  If  madame  was  alone,  I  should 
insist — 

A  soldier's  heavy  tread  sounded  in  the  corridor,  and 
Commandant  Hulot  soon  entered  with  a  sour  counte- 
nance. 

"Ah!  colonel,  come  here!"  said  Mile,  de  Verneuil^ 
smiling,  and  pointing  to  a  chair  near  her.  "Let  us 
attend,  since  things  will  so  have  it,  to  affairs  of  State. 
But  why  don't  you  laugh?  What  is  the  matter  with  you? 
Have  we  Chouans  here?" 

But  the  commandant  stood  agape  at  the  young  stranger, 
whom  he  considered  with  extraordinary  attention. 

"Mother,  will  you  have  some  more  hare?  Mademoi- 
selle, you  are  eating  nothing,"  said  the  young  sailor, 
busying  himself  with  his  guests,  to  Francine. 

But  Hulot's  surprise  and  Mile,  de  Verneuil' s  attention 
were  so  unmistakably  serious,,  that  willful  misunder- 
standing of  them  would  have  been  dangerous.  So  the 
young  man  went  on  abruptly,  "What  is  the  matter,  com- 
mandant? do  you  happen  to  know  me?" 

'Perhaps  so,"  answered  the  Republican. 

"Indeed,  I  think  I  have  seen  you  at  the  school." 

"I  never  went  to  any  school,"  replied  as  abruptly  the 
commandant;  "and  what  school  do  you  come  from?" 

"The  fecole  Polytechnique.1 


A  NOTION    OF    FOUCHfi'S.  1 15 

"Ah!  yes;  from  the  barrack  where  they  try  to  hatch 
soldiers  in  dormitories,"  answered  the  commandant, 
whose  hatred  for  officers  who  had  passed  through  this 
scientific  seminary  was  ungovernable.  "But  what  service 
do  you  belong  to?" 

"The  navy. " 

"Ah!  "  said  Hulot,  laughing  sardonically;  "have  you 
heard  of  many  pupils  of  that  school  in  the  navy?  It 
sends  out,"  said  he,  in  a  serious  tone,  "only  officers  in  the 
artillery  and  the  engineers." 

But  the  young  man  did  not  blanch. 

"I  was  made  an  exception,"  said  he,  "because  of  the 
name  I  bear.  All  our  family  have  been  sailors." 

"Ah!  "  said  Hulot,  "and  what  is  your  family  name,  citizen?  " 

"Du  Gua  Saint-Cyr. " 

"Then,  you  were  not  murdered  at  Mortagne?" 

"We  had  a  narrow  escape  of  it,"  interrupted  Madame 
du  Gua  eagerly.  "My  son  received  two  bullets." 

"And  have  you  got  papers?"  said  Hulot,  paying  no 
attention  to  the  mother. 

"Perhaps  you  want  to  read  them?"  asked  the  young 
sailor  in  an  impertinent  tone.  His  sarcastic  blue  eyes 
were  studying  by  turns  the  gloomy  face  of  the  command- 
ant and  Mile,  de  Verneuil's  countenance. 

"Pray,  does  a  young  monkey  like  you  want  to  make  a 
fool  of  me?  Your  papers  at  once,  or  off  with  you!  " 

"There!  there!  my  excellent  sir,  I  am  not  a  nincom- 
poop. Need  I  give  you  any  answer?  Who  are  you?" 

"The  commandant  of  the  department,"  replied  Hulot. 

"Oh,  then,  my  situation  may  become  serious,  for  I  shall 
have  been  taken  red-handed."  And  he  held  out  a  glass 
of  Bordeaux  to  the  commandant. 

"I  am  not  thirsty,"  answered  Hulot.  "Come!  your 
papers." 


Il6  THE    CHOUANS. 

At  this  moment,  hearing  the  clash  of  arms  and  the 
measured  tread  of  soldiers  in  the  street,  Hulot  drew  near 
the  window  with  an  air  of  satisfaction  which  made  Mile, 
de  Verneuil  shudder.  This  symptom  of  interest  encour- 
aged the  young  man,  whose  face  had  become  cold  and 
proud.  Dipping  in  his  coat-pocket,  he  drew  from  it  a 
neat  pocket-book  and  offered  the  commandant  some  papers 
which  Hulot  read  slowly,  comparing  the  description 
with  the  appearance  of  the  suspicious  traveler.  During 
this  examination  the  owl's  hoot  began  again,  but  this 
time  it  was  easy  to  trace  in  it  the  tone  and  play  of  a 
human  voice.  The  commandant  gave  the  young  man 
back  his  papers  with  a  mocking  air. 

"That  is  all  very  well,"  said  he,  "but  you  must  come 
with  me  to  the  district  office.  I  am  not  fond  of  music." 

"Why  do  you  take  him  there?"  asked  Mile,  de  Ver- 
neuil, in  an  altered  tone. 

"Young  woman,"  said  the  commandant,  making  his 
favorite  grimace,  "that  is  no  business  of  yours." 

But  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  no  less  irritated  at  the  soldier's 
tone  than  at  his  words,  and  most  of  all  at  the  humilia- 
tion to  which  she  was  subjected  before  a  man  who  had 
taken  a  fancy  to  her,  started  up,  and  dropped  at  once 
the  modest,  ingtnue  air  which  she  had  maintained  hitherto. 
Her  face  flushed  and  her  eyes  sparkled. 

"Tell  me,  has  this  young  man  complied  with  the  law's 
demands?"  she  continued,  not  raising  her  voice,  but  with 
a  certain  quiver  in  it. 

"Yes,    in  appearance,"  said  Hulot  ironically. 

"Then,  you  will  be  good  enough  to  let  him  alone  in 
appearance,"  said  she.  "Are  you  afraid  of  his  escaping 
you?  You  can  escort  him  with  me  to  Mayenne,  and  he 
will  be  in  the  coach  with  his  lady  mother.  Not  a  word: 
I  will  have  it  so.  What!"  she  went  on,  seeing  that 


A   NOTION    OF    FOUCHfi'S.  117 

Hulot  was  still  indulging  in  his  favorite  grimace ;  "do 
you  still  think  him  a  suspect?" 

"Well,  yes,  a  little." 

"What  do  you  want  to  do  with  him?" 

"Nothing  but  cool  his  head  with  a  little  lead.  He  is 
a  feather-brain,"  said  the  commandant,  still  ironically. 

"Are  you  joking,  colonel?"  cried  Mile,  de  Verneuil. 

"Come,  my  fine  fellow,"  said  the  commandant,  nod- 
ding to  the  sailor,  "come  along!  " 

At  this  impertinence  of  Hulot' s,  Mile,  de  Verneuil 
recovered  her  composure,  and  smiled. 

"Do  not  stir,"  said  she  to  the  young  man,  with  a  dig- 
nified gesture  of  protection. 

"What  a  beautiful  head!  "  whispered  he  to  his  mother, 
who  bent  her  brows. 

Annoyance  and  a  mixture  of  irritated  but  mastered 
feelings  shed  indeed  fresh  beauties  over  the  fair  Paris- 
ian's countenance.  Francine,  Madame  du  Gua,  and  her 
son  had  all  risen.  Mile,  de  Verneuil  sprang  between 
them  and  the  commandant,  who  had  a  smile  on  his  face, 
and  quickly  tore  open  two  fastenings  of  her  spencer. 
Then,  with  a  precipitate  action,  blinded  by  the  passion 
of  a  woman  whose  self-love  has  been  wounded,  and  as 
greedy  of  the  exercise  of  power  as  a  child  is  of  trying 
his  new  toy,  she  thrust  towards  Hulot  an  open  letter. 

"Read  that!  "  she  said  to  him  with  a  sneer. 

And  she  turned  towards  the  young  man,  at  whom, 
in  the  excitement  of  her  victory,  she  darted  a  glance 
where  love  mingled  with  malicious  triumph.  The  brows 
of  both  cleared,  their  faces  flushed  with  pleasure,  and 
their  souls  were  filled  with  a  thousand  conflicting  emo- 
tions. By  a  single  look,  Madame  du  Gua  on  her  side 
showed  that,  not  without  reason,  she  set  down  this  gen- 
erous conduct  of  Mile,  de  Vernetiil's  much  more  to  love 


THE    CHOUANS. 


than  to  charit)'.  The  fair  traveler  at  first  blushed,  and 
dropped  her  eyelids  modestly,  as  she  divined  the  mean- 
ing of  this  feminine  expression,  but  in  the  face  of  this 
kind  of  accusing  menace  she  raised  her  head  again  proudly 
and  challenged  all  eyes.  As  for  the  commandant,  he 
read  with  stupefaction  a  letter  bearing  the  full  minis- 


tUII 

terial       countersign, 

and  commanding  all  "^ 

authorities    to    obey  "^ 

this  mysterious  person.      Then  he  drew  his  sword,  broke 

it  across  his  knee,  and  threw  down  the  fragments. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  "no  doubt  you  know  what 
you  have  to  do.  But  a  Republican  has  his  own  notions 
and  his  own  pride.  I  am  not  good  at  obeying  where 
pretty  girls  command.  My  resignation  shall  be  sent  in 
to  the  First  Consul  to-night,  and  you  will  have  some- 


A  NOTION  OF   FOUCHfi'S.  119 

body  else  than  Hulot  to  do  your  bidding.  Where  I  can- 
not understand  I  stand  still ;  especially  when  it  is  my 
business  to  understand." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  but  it  was  soon  broken 
by  the  fair  Parisian,  who  stepped  up  to  the  command- 
ant, held  out  her  hand,  and  said: 

"Colonel,  though  your  beard  is  rather  long,  you  may 
kiss  this,  for  you  are  a  man!  " 

"I  hope  so,  mademoiselle,"  said  he,  depositing  clum- 
sily enough  a  kiss  on  this  remarkable  young  woman's 
hand.  "As  for  you,  my  fine  fellow,"  he  added,  shaking 
his  finger  at  the  young  man,  "you  have  had  a  nice 
escape !" 

"Commandant,"  said  the  stranger,  laughing,  "it  is 
time  the  joke  should  end.  I  will  go  to  the  district  office 
with  you  if  you  like." 

"And  will  you  bring  your  invisible  whistler,  Marche- 
a-Terre,  with  you?" 

"Who  is  Marche-a-Terre? "  said  the  sailor,  with  every 
mark  of  unaffected  surprise. 

"Did  not  somebody  whistle  just  now?" 

"And  if  they  did,"  said  the  stranger,  "what  have  I  to 
do  with  the  whistling,  if  you  please?  I  supposed  that 
the  soldiers  whom  you  had  ordered  up  to  arrest  me,  no 
doubt  were  letting  you  know  of  their  arrival.' 

"You  really  thought  that?" 

"Why,  yes,  egad!  But  why  don't  you  drink  your 
claret?  It  is  very  good." 

Surprised  at  the  natural  astonishment  of  the  sailor,  at 
the  extraordinary  levity  of  his  manner,  at  the  youth  of 
his  face,  which  was  made  almost  childish  by  his  care- 
fully curled  fair  hair,  the  commandant  hovered  between 
different  suspicions.  Then  his  glance  fell  on  Madame  du 
Gua,  who  was  trying  to  interpret  the  exchange  of  looks 


120  THE    CHOUAN5. 

between  her  son  and  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  and  he  asked  her 
abruptly: 

"Your  age,  citizeness?" 

"Ah,  sir  officer!  the  laws  of  our  Republic  are  becom- 
ing very  merciless.  I  am  thirty-eight." 

"May  I  be  shot  if  I  believe  a  word  of  it!  Marche-a- 
Terre  is  here — he  whistled — and  you  are  Chouans  in  dis- 
guise! God's  thunder!  I  will  have  the  whole  inn  sur- 
rounded and  searched!  " 

At  that  very  moment  a  whistle,  of  a  broken  kind,  but 
sufficiently  like  that  which  had  been  heard,  rose  from 
the  inn  yard,  and  interrupted  the  commandant.  He 
rushed  into  the  corridor — luckily  enough,  for  it  pre- 
vented him  from  seeing  the  pallor  which  his  words  had 
caused  on  Madame  du  Gua's  cheek.  But  he  found  the 
whistler  to  be  a  postilion  who  was  putting  the  coach- 
horses  to;  and  laying  aside  his  suspicions,  so  absurd 
did  it  seem  to  him  that  Chouans  should  risk  themselves 
in  the  very  center  of  Alen9on,  he  came  back  crestfallen. 

"I  forgive  him,  but  he  shall  dearly  aby  later  the  time 
he  has  made  us  pass  here,"  whispered  the  mother  in  her 
son's  ear,  as  Hulot  entered  the  room. 

The  excellent  officer's  embarrassed  countenance  showed 
the  struggle  which  his  stern  sense  of  duty  was  carrying 
on  with  his  natural  kindness.  He  still  looked  sulky; 
perhaps  because  he  thought  he  had  made  a  blunder; 
but  he  took  the  glass  of  claret,  and  said: 

"Comrade,  excuse  me,  but  your  school  sends  the  army 
such  boys  for  officers." 

"Then,  have  the  brigands  officers  more  boyish  still?" 
laughingly  asked  the  sailor,  as  he  called  himself. 

"For  whom  did  you  take  my  son?"  asked  Madame  du 
Gua. 

"For  the  Gars,  the  chief  sent  to  the  Chouans  and  the 


A   NOTION   OF    FOUCHfc's.  121 

Vendeans  by  the  London  Cabinet — the  man  whom 
they  call  the  Marquis  de  Montauran. " 

The  commandant  still  scrutinized  attentively  the  faces 
of  these  two  suspicious  persons,  who  gazed  at  each  other 
with  the  peculiar  looks  which  are  natural  to  the  self- 
satisfied  and  ignorant,  and  which  may  be  interpreted  by 
this  dialogue:  "Do  you  know  what  he  means?"  "No, 
do  you?"  "Don't  know  anything  about  it."  "Then, 
what  does  he  mean?  He's  dreaming!"  And  then  fol- 
lows the  sly,  jeering  laugh  of  a  fool  who  thinks  himself 
triumphant. 

The  sudden  alteration  in  manner  of  Mile,  de  Verneuil, 
who  seemed  struck  dumb  at  hearing  the  name  of  the 
Royalist  general,  was  lost  on  all  except  Francine,  who 
alone  knew  the  scarcely  distinguishable  changes  of  her 
young  mistress'  face.  The  commandant,  completely 
driven  from  his  position,  picked  up  the  pieces  of  his 
sword,  stared  at  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  whose  ebullition  of 
feeling  had  found  the  weak  place  in  his  heart,  and  said 
to  her: 

"As  for  you,  mademoiselle,  I  do  not  unsay  what  I  have 
said.  And  to-morrow  these  fragments  of  my  sword  shall 
find  their  way  to  Bonaparte,  unless — 

"And  what  do  I  care  for  Bonaparte,  and  your  Repub- 
lic, and  the  Chouans,  and  the  King,  and  the  Gars?" 
cried  she,  hardly  checking  a  display  of  temper  which 
was  in  doubtful  taste. 

Either  actual  passion  or  some  unknown  caprice  sent 
flashes  of  color  through  her  face,  and  it  was  easy  to  see 
that  the  girl  would  care  nothing  for  the  whole  world  as 
soon  as  she  had  fixed  her  affections  on  a  single  human 
being.  But  with  equal  suddenness  she  forced  herself  to 
be  once  more  calm,  when  she  saw  that  the  whole  audience 
had  bent  their  looks  on  her  as  on  some  consummate 


132  THE    CHOUAN8, 

actor.  The  commandant  abruptly  left  the  room,  but 
Mile,  de  Verneuil  followed  him,  stopped  him  in  the 
passage,  and  asked  him  in  a  grave  tone: 

"Have  you,  then,  really  strong  reasons  for  suspecting 
this  young  man  of  being  the  Gars?" 

"God's  thunder!  mademoiselle,  the  fellow  who  travels 
with  you  came  to  warn  me  that  the  passengers  in  the 
mail  had  been  assassinated  by  the  Chouans,  which  I  knew 
before.  But  what  I  did  not  know  was  the  name  of  the 
dead  travelers.  It  was  Du  Gua  Saint-Cyr. ' 

"Oh!  if  Corentin  is  at  the  bottom  of  it,"  said  she,  with 
a  contemptuous  gesture,  "I  am  surprised  at  nothing." 

The  commandant  retired  without  daring  to  look  at 
Mile,  de  Verneuil,  whose  perilous  beauty  already  made 
his  heart  beat.  "Had  I  waited  a  minute  longer,"  he  said 
to  himself  as  he  went  down-stairs,  "I  should  have  been 
fool  enough  to  pick  up  my  sword  in  order  to  escort  her." 

When  she  saw  the  young  man's  eyes  riveted  on  the  door 
by  which  Mile,  de  Verneuil  had  left  the  room,  Madame 
du  Gua  whispered  to  him,  "What!  always  T:he  same? 
Women  will  certainly  be  your  ruin.  A  doll  like  that 
makes  you  forget  everything!  Why  did  you  allow  her  to 
breakfast  with  us?  What  sort  of  a  person  is  a  daughter 
of  the  house  of  Verneuil  who  accepts  invitations  from 
strangers,  is  escorted  by  Blues,  and  disarms  them  with 
a  letter  which  she  carries  like  a  billet-doux  in  her 
bosom?  She  is  one  of  the  loose  women  by  whose  aid 
Fouche  hopes  to  seize  you,  and  the'  letter  she  showed 
was  given  to  her  in  order  to  command  the  services  of  the 
Blues  against  yourself!" 

"But,  madame, "  said  the  young  man,  in  a  tone  so 
sharp  that  it  cut  the  lady  to  the  heart  and  blanched  her 
cheeks,  "her  generosity  gives  the  lie  to  your  theory. 
Pray  remember  that  we  are  associated  by  nothing  save 


A  NOTION    OF    FOUCHfi'S.  123  , 

the  King's  business.  After  you  have  had  Charette  at 
your  feet,  is  there  another  man  in  the  world  for  you? 
Have  you  another  purpose  in  life  than  to  avenge 
him?  " 

The  lady  stood  whelmed  in  thought  like  a  man  who 
from  the  beach  sees  the  shipwreck  of  his  fortune  and 
covets  it  only  the  more  ardently.  But  as  Mile,  de  Ver- 
neuil  reentered,  the  young  sailor  exchanged  with  her  a 
smile  and  a  glance  instinct  with  gentle  raillery.  Doubt- 
ful as  the  future  might  be,  short-lived  as  might  be  their 
intimacy,  hope  told  none  the  less  her  flattering  tale. 
Swift  as  it  was,  the  glance  could  not  escape  the  shrewd- 
ness of  Madame  du  Gua,  who  understood  it  well.  Her 
brow  clouded  lightly  but  immediately,  and  her  face  could 
not  hide  her  jealous  thoughts.  Francine  kept  her  gaze 
on  this  lady;  she  saw  her  eyes  flash,  her  cheeks  flush; 
she  thought  she  could  discern  the  countenance  of  one 
inspired  by  some  hellish  fancy,  mastered  by  some  terri- 
ble revulsion  of  thought.  But  lightning  is  not  swifter, 
nor  death  more  sudden,  than  was  the  flight  of  this  expres- 
sion; and  Madame  du  Gua  recovered  her  cheerfulness  of 
look  with  such  self-command  that  Francine  thought  she 
must  have  been  under  a  delusion.  Nevertheless,  recogniz- 
ing in  the  woman  a  masterfulness  of  spirit  at  least  equal  to 
that  of  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  she  shuddered  as  she  foresaw 
the  terrible  conflicts  likely  to  occur  between  two 
minds  of  the  same  temper,  and  trembled  as  she  saw 
Mile,  de  Verneuil  advance  towards  the  young  officer, 
casting  on  him  a  passionate  and  intoxicating  glance} 
drawing  him  towards  herself  with  both  hands,  and  turn- 
ing his  face  to  the  light  with  a  gesture  half  coquettish 
and  half  malicious. 

"Now  tell  me  the  truth,"  said  she,  trying  to  read  it  in 
his  eyes.  "You  are  not  the  Citizen  Du  Gua  Saint-Cyr?" 


I24 


THE    CHOUANS. 


"Yes,  I  am,  mademoiselle." 

"But    his  mother  and    he  were  killed  the    day  before 
yesterday !" 

"I  am  extremely  sorry,"  said  he,  laughing;  "but  how- 


ever  that  is,  I  am  all  the  same  your  debtor  in  a  fashion 
for  which  I  shall  ever  be  most  grateful  to  you,  and  I  only 
wish  I  were  in  a  position  to  prove  my  gratitude." 


A   NOTION   OF    FOUCHE'S.  125 

"I  thought  I  had  saved  an  emigrant;  but  I  like  you 
better  as  a  Republican." 

Yet,  no  sooner  had  these  words,  as  if  by  thoughtless- 
ness, escaped  her  lips,  than  she  became  confused;  she 
blushed  to  her  very  eyes,  and  her  whole  bearing  showed 
a  deliciously  naive  emotion.  She  dropped  the  officer's 
hands  as  if  reluctantly,  and  urged,  not  by  any  shame  at 
having  clasped  them,  but  by  some  impulse  which  was 
too  much  for  her  heart,  she  left  him  intoxicated  with 
hope.  Then  she  seemed  suddenly  to  reproach  herself  with 
this  freedom,  authorized  though  it  might  seem  to  be  by 
their  passing  adventures  of  travel,  resumed  a  conventional 
behavior,  bowed  to  her  two  fellow-travelers,  and,  disap- 
pearing with  Francine,  sought  their  apartment.  As  they 
reached  it,  Francine  entwined  her  fingers,  turned  the 
palms  of  her  hands  upwards  with  a  twist  of  the  arms, 
and  said,  gazing  at  her  mistress: 

"Ah!  Marie,  how  much  has  happened  in  a  little  time! 
Who  but  you  would  have  adventures  of  this  kind?" 

Mile,  de  Verneuil  threw  herself  with  a  bound  on 
Francine's  neck.  "Ah!"  said  she,  "this  is  life!*  I  am  in 
heaven! " 

"In  hell,  it  may  be,"  said  Francine. 

"Oh!  hell  if  you  like,"  said  Mile,  de  Verneuil  merrily. 
"Here,  give  me  your  hand.  Feel  my  heart,  how  it 
beats.  I  am  in  a  fever.  I  care  nothing  for  the  whole 
world.  How  often  have  I  seen  that  man  in  my  dreams! 
What  a  beautiful  head  he  has!  what  a  flashing  eye!" 

"Will  he  love  you?"  asked  the  simple,  straightforward 
peasant  girl,  in  a  lowered  tone,  her  face  dashed  with 
sadness. 

"Can  you  ask  such  a  question?"  said  Mile,  de  Verneuil. 
"But  teli  me,  Francine,"  she  added,  assuming  an  air  half 
serious  and  half  comic,  "is  he  so  very  hard  to  please?" 


126  THE    CHOUANS. 

"Yes,  but  will  he  love  you  always?"  replied  Francine, 
with  a  smile. 

Both  girls  looked  at  each  other  for  a  time  surprised, 
Francine  at  showing  so  much  knowledge  of  life,  Marie 
at  perceiving  for  the  first  time  a  promise  of  happiness 
in  an  amorous  adventure.  So  she  remained  silent,  like 
one  who  leans  over  a  precipice,  the  depth  of  which  he 
would  gauge  by  waiting  for  the  thud  of  a  pebble  that  he 
has  cast  in  carelessly  enough  at  first. 

"Ah  !  that  is  my  business,"  said  she,  with  the  gesture  of 
a  gambler  who  plays  his  last  stake.  "I  have  no  pity  for 
a  forsaken  woman;  she  has  only  herself  to  blame  if  she 
is  deserted.  I  have  no  fear  of  keeping,  dead  or  alive, 
the  man  whose  heart  has  once  belonged  to  me.  But,"  she 
added  after  a  moment's  silence,  and  in  a  tone  of  surprise, 
"how  do  you  come  to  be  so  knowing  as  this,  Francine?" 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  the  young  girl  eagerly,  "I  hear 
steps  in  the  passage." 

"Ah,"  said  she,  listening,  "it  is  not  he;  but,"  she  con- 
tinued, "that  is  your  answer,  is  it?  I  understand.  I 
will  wait  for  your  secret,  or  guess  it." 

Francine  was  right.  The  conversation  was  interrupted 
by  three  taps  at  the  door;  and  Captain  Merle,  on  hear- 
ing the  "Come  in!  "  which  Mile,  de  Verneuil  addressed  to 
him,  quickly  entered.  The  captain  made  a  soldierly  bow 
to  the  lady,  venturing  to  throw  a  glance  at  her  at  the 
same  time,  and  was  so  dazzled  by  her  beauty  that  he 
could  find  nothing  to  say  to  her  but  "Mademoiselle,  I 
am  at  your  orders. " 

"Have  you  become  my  guardian  in  virtue  of  the  resig- 
nation of  the  chief  of  your  demi-brigade?  that  is  what 
they  call  your  regiment,  is  it  not?" 

"My  superior  officer  is  Adjutant-Major  Gerard,  by 
v/hose  orders  I  come. " 


A   NOTION   OP   POUCHfi'S.  127 

"Is  your  commandant,  then,  so  much  afraid  of  me?" 
asked  she. 

"Pardon  me,  mademoiselle,  Hulot  fears  nothing;  but 
you  see,  ladies  are  not  exactly  in  his  way,  and  it  vexed 
him  to  find  his  general  wearing  a  kerchief." 

"Yet,"  retorted  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  "it  was  his  duty  to 
obey  his  chiefs.  I  like  obedience,  I  warn  you,  and  I 
will  not  have  people  resist  me." 

"That  would  be  difficult,"  answered  Merle. 

"Let us  take  counsel  together,"  said  Mile,  de  Verneuil. 
You  have  some  fresh  men  here.  They  shall  escort  me 
to  Mayenne,  which  I  can  reach  this  evening.  Can  we 
find  other  troops  there  so  as  to  go  on  without  stopping? 
The  Chouans  know  nothing  of  our  little  expedition;  and 
by  traveling  thus  at  night  we  shall  have  very  bad  luck 
indeed  if  we  find  them  in  numbers  strong  enough  to 
attack  us.  Come,  tell  me,  do  you  think  this  feasible?" 

"Yes,   mademoiselle." 

"What  sort  of  a  road  is  it  from  Mayenne  to  Fougeres?" 

"A  rough  one;  the  going  is  all  up  and  down — a  regu- 
lar squirrel's  country." 

"Let  us  be  off,  then,"  said  she;  "and  as  there  is  no 
danger  in  going  out  of  Alencon,  you  set  out  first.  We 
shall  easily  catch  you  up." 

"One  would  think  she  was  an  officer  of  ten  years' 
standing,"  said  Merle  to  himself,  as  he  went  out.  "Hulot 
is  wrong.  The  girl  is  not  one  of  those  who  draw  their 
rents  from  down  feathers.  Odds  cartridges!  If  Cap- 
tain Merle  wishes  to  become  an  adjutant- major,  he  had 
better  not  mistake  Saint  Michael  for  the  devil." 

While  Mile,  de  Verneuil  was  conferring  with  the  cap- 
tain, Francine  had  left  the  room,  intending  to  examine 
through  a  passage  window  a  certain  spot  in  the  court- 
yard, whither,  from  the  moment  she  had  entered  the  inn, 


!28 


THE    CHOUANS. 


an  irresistible  curiosity  had  attracted  her.  She  gazed  at 
the  straw  in  the  stable  with  such  profound  attention,  that 
you  might  have  thought  her  deep  in  prayer  before  a 

statue  of  the  Vir- 
gin. Very  soon 
she  perceived 
Madame  du  Gua 
making  her  way 
towards  Marche- 
a-Terre  as  care- 
fully as  a  cat 
afraid  of  wetting 
her  paws.  The 
Chouan  no  sooner 
saw  the  lady  than 
he  rose  and  ob- 
served towards 
her  an  attitude  of 
the  deepest  re- 
spect— a  singular 
circumstance, 
which  roused 
Francine's  curi- 
osity still  more. 
She  darted  into 
the  yard,  stole 
along  the  wall  so 
as  not  to  be  seen 
by  Madame  du 
Gua,  and  tried  to 
hide  herself  be- 
hind the  stable  door.  By  stepping  on  tiptoe,  holding 
her  breath,  and  avoiding  the  slightest  noise,  she  suc- 
ceeded in  posting  herself  close  to  Marche-a-Terre 


A   NOTION   OF    FOUCHfi'S.  I2Q 

without  exciting  his  attention.  "And  if,"  said  the  strange 
lady  to  the  Chouan,  "after  all  these  inquiries,  you  find 
that  it  is  not  her  name  shoot  her  without  mercy,  as 
you  would  a  mad  dog." 

"I  understand,"  said  Marche-a-Terre. 

The  lady  retired,  and  the  Chouan,  replacing  his  red 
woolen  cap  on  his  head,  remained  standing,  and  was 
scratching  his  ear  after  the  fashion  of  puzzled  men,  when 
he  saw  Francine  stand  before  him,  as  if  by  enchantment. 

"Saint  Anne  of  Auray!  "  cried  he,  suddenly  dropping 
his  whip,  folding  his  hands,  and  remaining  in  a  state  of 
ecstasy.  His  coarse  face  was  tinged  with  a  slight  flush, 
and  his  eyes  flashed  like  diamonds  lost  in  the  mud. 

"Is  it  really  Cottin's  wench?"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice, 
that  none  but  himself  could  hear.  "Ah,  but  you  are 
brave!  "  (godaine'],  said  he,  after  a  pause.  This  odd 
word,  godain,  or  godame,  is  part  of  the  patois  of  the  dis- 
trict, and  supplies  lovers  with  a  superlative  to  express 
the  conjunction  of  beauty  and  finery. 

"I  should  be  afraid  to  touch  you,"  added  Marche-a-Terre, 
who  nevertheless  advanced  his  broad  hand  towards  Fran- 
cine,  as  if  to  make  sure  of  the  weight  of  a  thick  gold  chain 
which  surrounded  her  neck  and  fell  down  to  her  waist. 

"You  had  better  not,  Pierre,"  answered  Francine, 
inspired  by  the  feminine  instinct  which  makes  a  woman 
tyrannize  whenever  she  is  not  tyrannized  over. 

She  stepped  haughtily  back,  after  enjoying  the  Chouan' s 
surprise.  But  she  made  up  for  the  harshness  of  her  words 
by  a  look  full  of  kindness,  and  drew  near  to  him  again. 

"Pierre,"  said  she,  "that  lady  was  talking  to  you*  of 
my  young  mistress,  was  she  not?" 


*  Marche-a-Terre,  in  his  awe  at  Francine's  finery,  and  she,  in  her  desire  to  play 
the  lady,  have  used  vous,  which  the  original  italicizes.  Both  adopt  the  familiar  tu 
henceforth.  But  the  second  person  singular  is  so  awkward  in  ordinary  English,  rtiat 
it  seems  better  adjusted,  with  this  warning,  to  the  common  use.— Translator's  Note. 


130  THE   CHOUANS. 

Marche-a-Terre  stood  dumb,  with  a  struggle  going  on 
in  his  face  like  that  at  dawn  between  light  and  darkness. 
He  gazed  by  turns  at  Francine,  at  the  great  whip  which 
he  had  let  fall,  and  at  the  gold  chain  which  seemed  to 
exercise  over  him  a  fascination  not  less  than  that  of 
the  Breton  girl's  face.  Then,  as  if  to  put  an  end  to  his 
own  disquiet,  he  picked  up  his  whip,  but  said  no  word. 

"Oh!  "  said  Francine,  who  knew  his  inviolable  fidelity, 
and  wished  to  dispel  his  suspicions,  "it  is  not  hard  to 
guess  that  this  lady  bade  you  kill  my  mistress." 

Marche-a-Terre  dropped  his  head  in  a  significant 
manner,  which  was  answer  enough  for  "Cottin's  wench." 

"Well,  Pierre,  if  the  least  harm  happens  to  her,  if  a 
hair  of  her  head  is  injured,  we  have  looked  our  last  at 
one  another  here  for  time  and  for  eternity !  I  shall  be 
in  Paradise  then,  and  you  in  hell!" 

No  demoniac  just  about  to  undergo  exorcism  in  form  by 
the  church  was  ever  more  agitated  than  Marche-a-Terre 
by  this  prediction,  pronounced  with  a  confidence  which 
gave  it  a  sort  of  certainty.  The  expression  of  his  eyes, 
charged  at  first  with  a  savage  tenderness,  then  struck  by 
a  fanatical  sense  of  duty  as  imperious  as  love  itself, 
turned  to  ferocity,  as  he  perceived  the  masterful  air  of 
the  innocent  girl  who  had  once  been  his  love.  But 
Francine  interpreted  the  Chouan's  silence  in  her  own 
fashion. 

"You  will  do  nothing  for  me,  then?"  she  said,  in  a 
reproachful  tone. 

At  these  words  the  Chouan  cast  on  his  mistress  a 
glance  as  black  as  a  raven's  wing. 

"Are  you  your  own  mistress?"  growled  he,  in  a  tone  that 
Francine  alone  could  understand. 

"Should  I  be  where  I  am?"  said  she  indignantly.  "But 
what  are  you  doing  here?  You  are  still  Chouanning,  you 


A    NOTION    OF    FOUCHfi's.  131 

are  prowling  along  the  highways  like  a  mad  animal  try- 
ing to  bite.  Oh,  Pierre !  if  you  were  sensible  you  would 
come  with  me.  This  pretty  young  lady  (who,  I  should 
tell  you,  was  brought  up  at  our  house  at  home),  has 
taken  care  of  me.  I  have  two  hundred  good  livres  a 
year.  Mademoiselle  has  bought  me  Uncle  Thomas' 
great  house  for  five  hundred  crowns,  and  I  have  two 
thousand  livres  saved  from  my  wages." 

But  her  smile  and  the  list  of  her  riches  made  no 
impression  on  Marche-a-Terre's  stolid  air.  "The  rectors 
have  given  the  word  for  war,"  said  he;  "every  Blue  we 
lay  low  is  good  for  an  indulgence." 

"But  perhaps  the  Blues  will  kill  you!" 

His  only  answer  was  to  let  his  arms  drop  by  his  sides, 
as  if  to  apologize  for  the  smallness  of  his  offering  to  God 
and  the  King. 

"And  what  would  become  of  me?"  asked  the  young  girl 
sorrowfully. 

Marche-a-Terre  gazed  at  Francine  as  if  stupefied ;  his 
eyes  grew  in  size,  and  there  dropped  from  them  two 
tears,  which  trickled  in  parallel  lines  down  his  hairy 
cheeks  on  to  his  goatskin  raiment,  while  a  dull  groan 
came  from  his  breast. 

"Saint  Anne  of  Aura)7 !  Pierre,  is  this  all  you  have  to 
say  to  me  after  seven  years'  parting?  How  you  have 
changed! " 

"I  love  you  still,  and  always!  "  answered  the  Chouan 
roughly. 

"No,"  she  whispered,   "the  King  comes  before  me." 

"If  you  look  at  me  like  that,"  he  said,  "I  must  go." 

"Good-bye  !   then,  "  she  said  sadly. 

"Good-bye  ! "  repeated  Marche-a-Terre.  He  seized  Fran- 
cine's  hand,  squeezed  it,  kissed  it,  crossed  himself,  and 
plunged  into  the  stable  like  a  dog  that  has  just  stolen  a  bone. 


132  THE   CHOOANS. 

"Pille-Miche,  said  he  to  his  comrade,  "I  cannot  see 
my  way.  Have  you  got  your  snuff-mull?" 

"Oh!  c.  J  bleu!  .  .  .  what  a  fine  chain!"  answered 
Pille-Miche,  groping  in  a  pocket  under  his  goatskin. 
Then  he  held  out  to  Marche-a-Terre  one  of  the  little 
conical  horn  boxes  in  which  Bretons  put  the  finely  pow- 
dered tobacco  which  they  grind  for  themselves  during 
the  long  winter  evenings.  The  Chouan  raised  his  thumb 
so  as  to  make  in  his  left  hand  the  hollow  wherein  old 
soldiers  measure  their  pinches  of  snuff,  and  shook  the  mull 
(whose  tip  Pille-Miche  had  screwed  off)  hard.  An 
impalpable  powder  fell  slowly  through  the  little  hole  at 
the  point  of  this  Breton  implement.  Marche-a-Terre 
repeated  the  operation,  without  speaking,  seven  or  eight 
times,  as  if  the  powder  possessed  the  gift  of  changing 
his  thoughts.  All  of  a  sudden  he  let  a  gesture  of  despair 
escape  him,  threw  the  mull  to  Pille-Miche,  and  picked 
up  a  rifle  hidden  in  the  straw. 

"It  is  no  good  taking  seven  or  eight  pinches  like  that 
right  off,"  said  the  miserly  Pille-Miche. 

"Forward!"  cried  Marche-a-Terre  hoarsely.  "There  is 
work  to  do."  And  some  thirty  Chouans  who  were  sleep- 
ing under  the  mangers  and  in  the  straw  lifted  their  heads, 
saw  Marche-a-Terre  standing,  and  promptly  disappeared 
by  a  door  opening  on  to  gardens,  whence  the  fields  could 
be  reached. 

When  Francine  left  the  stable,  she  found  the  coach 
read}-  to  start.  Mile,  de  Verneuil  and  her  two  fellow- 
travelers  had  already  got  in,  and  the  Breton  girl  shud- 
dered as  she  saw  her  mistress  facing  the  horses,  by  the 
side  of  the  woman  who  had  just  given  orders  for  her 
death.  The  "suspect"  placed  himself  opposite  to  Marie; 
and  as  soon  as  Francine  had  taken  her  place,  the  heavy 
vehicle  set  off  at  a  smart  trot. 


A   NOTION    OK    FOUCHfi's.  133 

The  sun  had  already  dispelled  the  gray  mists  of  an 
autumn  morning,  and  its  rays  gave  to  the  melancholy 
fields  a  certain  lively  air  of  holiday  youth.  It  is  the  wont 
of  lovers  to  take  these  atmospheric  changes  as  omens; 
but  the  silence  which  for  some  time  prevailed  among  the 
travelers  struck  Francine  as  singular.  Mile,  de  Verneuil 
had  recovered  her  air  of  indifference,  and  sat  with  lowered 
eyes,  her  head  slightly  leaning  to  one  side,  and  her  hands 
hidden  in  a  kind  of  mantle  which  she  had  put  on.  If 
she  raised  her  eyes  at  all  it  was  to  view  the  landscape 
which,  shifting  rapidly,  flitted  past  them.  Entertaining 
no  doubt  of  admiration,  she  seemed  willfully  to  refuse 
opportunity  for  it;  but  her  apparent  nonchalance  indicated 
coquetry  rather  than  innocence.  The  touching  purity 
which  gives  so  sweet  an  accord  to  the  varying  expressions 
in  which  tender  and  weak  souls  reveal  themselves,  seemed 
powerless  to  lend  its  charm  to  a  being  whose  strong  feel- 
ings destined  her  as  the  prey  of  stormy  passion.  Full, 
on  his  side,  of  the  joy  which  the  beginning  of  a  flirtation 
gives,  the  stranger  did  not  as  yet  trouble  himself  with 
endeavoring  to  harmonize  the  discord  that  existed  between 
the  coquetry  and  the  sincere  enthusiasm  of  this  strange 
girl.  It  was  enough  for  him  that  her  feigned  innocence 
permitted  him  to  gaze  at  will  on  a  face  as  beautiful  in  its 
calm  as  it  had  just  been  in  its  agitation.  We  are  not 
prone  to  quarrel  with  that  which  gives  us  delight.  It  is 
not  easy  for  a  pretty  woman  in  a  carriage  to  withdraw 
from  the  gaze  of  her  companions,  whose  eyes  are  fixed  on 
her  as  if  seeking  an  additional  pastime  to  beguile  the 
tedium  of  travel.  Therefore,  congratulating  himself  on 
being  able  to  satisfy  the  hunger  of  his  rising  passion 
without  its  being  possible  for  the  strange  lady  either  to 
avoid  his  eyes  or  be  offended  at  their  persistence,  the 
young  officer  studied  to  his  heart's  content,  and  as  if  he 


134  THE    CHOUANS. 

had  been  examining  a  picture,  the  plire  and  dazzling 
lines  of  her  face.  Now  the  day  brought  out  the  pink 
transparence  of  the  nostrils  and  the  double  curve  which 
formed  a  junction  between  the  nose  and  the  upper  lip. 
Now  a  paler  sunbeam  played  on  the  tints  of  the  com- 
plexion— pearly-white  under  the  eyes  and  round  the 
mouth,  roseate  on  the  cheeks,  creamy  towards  the 
temples  and  on  the  neck.  He  admired  the  contrasts  of 
light  and  shade  produced  by  the  hair  which  surrounded 
the  face  with  its  raven  tresses,  giving  it  a  fresh  and 
passing  grace;  for  with  woman  everything  is  fugitive. 
Her  beauty  of  to-day  is  often  not  that  of  yesterday,  and 
it  is  lucky  for  her,  perhaps,  that  it  is  so.  Thus  the  self- 
styled  sailor,  still  in  that  age  when  man  enjoys  the  noth- 
ings that  make  up  the  whole  of  love,  watched  delightedly 
the  successive  movements  of  the  eyelids  and  the  ravish- 
ing play  which  each  breath  gave  to  the  bosom.  Some- 
times, his  will  and  his  thoughts  in  unison,  he  spied  a 
harmony  between  the  expression  of  the  eyes  and  the 
faint  movements  of  the  lips.  Each  gesture  showed  him  a 
new  soul,  each  movement  a  new  facet  in  this  young  girl. 
If  a  thought  disturbed  her  mobile  features,  if  a  sudden 
flush  passed  over  them,  if  they  were  illumined  by  a 
smile,  his. delight  in  endeavoring  to  guess  the  mysterious 
lady's  secrets  was  infinite.  The  whole  of  her  was  a  trap 
for  sovd  and  sense  at  once,  and  their  silence,  far  from 
raising  a  barrier  between  the  exchange  of  their  hearts, 
gave  their  thoughts  common  ground.  More  than  one 
glance  in  which  her  eyes  met  the  stranger's  told  Marie 
de  Verneuil  that  this  silence  might  become  compromis- 
ing; and  she  accordingly  put  to  Madame  du  Gua  some  of 
the  trivial  questions  which  start  a  conversation,  thouhg 
she  could  not  keep  the  son  out  of  her  talk  with  the  mother. 
"How,  madame,"  said  she,  "could  you  make  up  your 


A  NOTION  OF    FOUCHfi'S.  135 

mind  to  send  your  son  into  the  navy?  is  not  this  a  sen- 
tence of  perpetual  anxiety  on  yourself?" 

"Mademoiselle,  it  is  the  lot  of  women — I  mean  of 
mothers — to  tremble  always  for  their  dearest  treasures." 

"Your  son  is  very  like  you!" 

"Do  you  think  so,  mademoiselle?" 

This  unconscious  endorsement  of  the  age  which 
Madame  du  Gua  had  assigned  to  herself,  made  the 
young  man  smile,  and  inspired  his  so-called  mother  with 
fresh  annoyance.  Her  hatred  grew  at  every  fresh  glance 
of  love  which  her  son  threw  at  Marie.  Whether  they 
spoke  or  were  silent,  everything  kindled  in  her  a  hideous 
rage,  disguised  under  the  most  insinuating  manners. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  the  stranger,  "you  are  wrong. 
Sailors  are  not  more  exposed  to  danger  than  other 
warriors.  Indeed,  there  is  no  reason  for  women  to  hate 
the  navy;  for  have  we  not  over  the  land  services  the 
immense  advantage  of  remaining  faithful  to  our  mistresses?  " 

"Yes,  because  you  cannot  help  it,"  replied  Mile,  de 
Verneuil,  laughing. 

"It  is  a  kind  of  faithfulness,  all  the  same,"  said  Madame 
du  Gua  in  a  tone  which  was  almost  sombre. 

But  the  conversation  became  livelier,  and  occupied 
itself  with  subjects  of  no  interest  to  any  but  the  three 
travelers,  for  in  such  a  situation  persons  of  intelli- 
gence are  able  to  give  a  fresh  meaning  to  mere  common- 
places. But  the  talk,  frivolous  as  it  seemed,  which  these 
strangers  chose  to  interchange,  hid  the  desires,  the  pas- 
sions, the  hopes  which  animated  them.  Marie's  con- 
stantly wide-awake  subtlety  and  her  aggressive  wit 
taught  Madame  du  Gua  that  only  slander  and  false  deal- 
ing could  give  her  advantage  over  a  rival  as  redoubtable 
in  intellect  as  in  beauty.  But  the  travelers  now  caught 
up  their  escort,  and  their  vehicle  began  to  move  less 


136  THE    CHOUANS. 

rapidly.  The  young  sailor  saw  in  front  a  long  stretch  of 
ascent,  and  suggested  to  Mile,  de  Verneuil  that  she 
should  get  out  and  walk.  His  good  manners  and  atten- 
tive politeness  apparently  had  their  effect  on  the  fair 
Parisian,  and  he  felt  her  consent  as  a  compliment. 

"Is  madame  of  our  mind?"  asked  she  of  Madame  du 
Gua.  "Will  she  join  our  walk?" 

"Coquette!  "  said  the  lady  as  she  alighted. 

Marie  and  the  stranger  walked  together,  but  with  an 
interval  between  them.  The  sailor,  already  a  prey  to 
tyrannous  desire,  was  eager  to  dispel  the  reserve  which 
she  showed  towards  him,  and  the  nature  of  which  he  did 
not  fail  to  see.  He  thought  to  do  so  by  jesting  with  the 
fair  stranger  under  cover  of  that  old  French  gayety — that 
spirit,  now  frivolous,  now  grave,  but  always  chivalrous 
though  often  mocking — which  was  the  note  of  the  more 
distinguished  men  among  the  exiled  aristocracy.  But 
the  lively  Parisian  girl  rallied  the  young  Republican 
so  maliciously,  and  contrived  to  insinuate  such  a  con- 
temptuous expression  of  reproach  for  his  attempts  at 
frivolity,  while  showing  a  marked  preference  for  the 
bold  and  enthusiastic  ideas  which  in  spite  of  himself 
shone  through  his  discourse,  that  he  could  not  miss  the 
way  to  win  her.  The  talk  therefore  changed  its  char- 
acter, and  the  stranger  soon  showed  that  the  hopes 
inspired  by  his  expressive  countenance  were  not  delusive. 
Each  moment  he  found  new  difficulties  in  comprehending 
the  siren,  with  whom  he  fell  more  and  more  in  love,  and 
was  obliged  to  suspend  his  judgment  in  reference  to  a 
girl  who  seemed  to  amuse  herself  by  contradicting  each 
opinion  that  he  formed  of  her.  Enticed  at  first  by  the 
contemplation  of  her  physical  beauty,  he  felt  himself 
now  attracted  towards  her  unknown  mind  by  a  curiosity 
which  Marie  took  pleasure  in  kindling.  The  conversa- 


A    NOTION   OF    FOUCHfi'S. 


137 


tion  little  by  little  assumed  a  character  of  intimacy  very 
foreign  to  the  air  of  indifference  which  Mile,  de  Verneuil 


tried  unsuccessfully  to  infuse  into  it.      Although  Madame 
du  Gua  had  followed  the  lovers,  they  had  unconsciously 


138  THE  CHOUANS. 

walked  quicker  than  she  did,  and  were  soon  some  hun- 
dred paces  ahead.  The  handsome  couple  trod  the  fine 
gravel  of  the  road,  delighted  like  children  in  keeping 
step  as  their  paces  sounded  lightly,  happy  in  the  rays 
of  light  which  wrapped  them  as  in  spring  sunshine,  and 
in  breathing  together  the  autumnal  perfume,  so  rich  in 
vegetable  spoils  that  it  seemed  a  food  brought  by  the 
winds  to  nourish  the  melancholy  of  young  love.*  Although 
both  agreed  in  seeming  to  see  nothing  but  an  ordinary 
chance  in  their  momentary  connection,  the  heavens,  the 
scene,  and  the  season  gave  their  emotion  a  touch  of 
seriousness  which  had  the  air  of  passion.  They  began 
to  praise  the  beauty  of  the  day;  then  they  talked  of  their 
strange  meeting,  of  the  approaching  breach  of  so  pleas- 
ant an  acquaintance,  of  the  ease  with  which  one  becomes 
intimate  while  traveling  with  people  who  are  lost  to 
sight  almost  as  soon  as  seen.  After  this  remark  the 
young  man  availed  himself  of  the  unspoken  leave  which 
seemed  to  be  granted  him  to  edge  in  some  tender  con- 
fidences, and  endeavored  to  risk  a  declaration  in  the  style 
of  a  man  accustomed  to  the  situation. 

"Have  you  noticed,  mademoiselle,  "xsaid  he,  "how  little 
feeling  cares  to  keep  in  the  beaten  track  during  these 
terrible  times  of  ours?  Are  not  all  our  circumstances 
full  of  surprise  and  of  the  inexplicable?  We  men  of 
to-day  love,  we  hate,  on  the  strength  of  a  single  glance. 
At  one  moment  we  are  united  for  life,  at  another  we  part 
with  the  swiftness  of  those  who  march  to  death.  We 
are  always  in  a  hurry,  like  the  nation  itself  in  its 
tumults.  In  the  midst  of  danger  men  join  hands  more 
quickly  than  in  the  jog-trot  of  ordinary  life,  and  in  these 


*  This,  I  fear,  is  what  Ralzac's  own  countrymen  would  call  galimatias.     But  it  is 

what  Balzac  wrote. —  Translator's  Note. 


A  NOTION  OF    FOUCHfi's.  139 

latter  days  at  Paris  all  have  known,  as  if  on  a  battle- 
field, what  a  single  hand-clasp  can  tell." 

"Men  felt  the  need  of  living  hard  and  fast,"  she 
answered,  "becaase  there  was  but  a  short  time  to  live." 
And  then,  glancing  at  her  young  companion  in  a  way 
which  seemed  to  foretell  the  end  of  their  brief  journey, 
she  said,  a  little  maliciously:  "For  a  young  man  who  is 
just  leaving  the  school,  you  are  well  up  in  the  affairs  of 
life."  - 

"What  do  you  really  think  of  me?"  said  he,  after  a 
moment's  silence.  "Tell  me  your  opinion  without  sparing.  " 

"I  suppose  you  wish  to  purchase  the  right  of  giving  me 
yours  of  me?"  she  replied,  laughing. 

"That  is  no  answer,"  said  he,  after  a  brief  pause. 
"Take  care!  silence  itself  is  often  a  reply." 

"But  have  I  not  guessed  everything  you  meant  to  say 
to  me?  You  have  said  too  much  as  it  is." 

"Oh!  if  we  understand  each  other,"  said  he,  with  a 
laugh,  "you  have  given  me  more  than  I  dared  hope.' 

She  smiled  so  graciously  that  it  seemed  as  if  she 
accepted  the  courteous  challenge  with  which  all  men 
love  to  threaten  a  woman.  So  they  took  it  for  granted, 
half  seriously,  half  in  jest,  that  they  never  could  be  to 
each  other  anything  else  than  that  which  they  were  at  the 
moment.  The  young  man  might  abandon  himself,  if  he 
liked,  to  a  hopeless  passion,  and  Marie  might  mock  it. 
So,  having  thus  erected  between  them  an  imaginary 
barrier,  they  appeared  both  eager  to  profit  by  the  rash 
license  for  which  they  had  bargained.  Suddenly  Marie 
struck  her  foot  against  a  stone,  and  stumbled. 

"Take  my  arm,"  said  the  stranger. 

"I  must  needs  do  so,  you  giddy-pate,  said  she.  "You 
would  be  too  proud  if  I  refused;  I  should  seem  to  be 
afraid  of  you." 


140  THE    CHOUANS. 

"Ah!  mademoiselle,"  answered  he,  pressing  her  arm 
that  she  might  feel  the  beating  of  his  heart,  "you  will 
make  me  proud  of  this  favor." 

"Well,  the  ease  with  which  I  consent  will  dispel  your 
illusions." 

"Would  you  protect  me  already  against  the  danger  of 
the  feelings  which  you  yourself  inspire?" 

"Pray  leave  off  trying  to  entangle  me,"  said  she,  "in 
these  little  boudoir  fancies,  these  word-puzzles  of  my 
lady's  chamber.  I  do  not  like  to  see  in  a  man  of  your 
character  the  kind,  of  wit  that  fools  can  have.  See!  we 
are  under  a  lovely  sky,  in  the  open  country;  before  us, 
above  us,  all  is  grand.  You  mean  to  tell  me  that  I  am 
beautiful,  do  you  not?  Your  eyes  have  told  me  that 
already,  and  besides,  I  know  it.  Nor  am  I  a  woman 
who  is  flattered  by  compliments.  Would  you  perchance 
talk  to  me  of  your  feelings?"  she  said,  with  an  ironic 
stress  on  the  word.  "Do  you  think  me  silly  enough  to 
believe  in  a  sudden  sympathy  strong  enough  to  throw 
over  a  whole  life  the  masterful  memory  of  a  single 
morning?  " 

"Not  of  a  morning,"  answered  he,  "but  of  a  beautiful 
woman  who  has  shown  herself  a  generous  one  as  well." 

"You  forget,"  she  rejoined,  with  a  laugh,  "attractions 
greater  than  these.  I  am  a  stranger  to  you,  and  my 
name,  my  quality,  my  position,  my  self-possession  in 
mind  and  manners — all  must  seem  extraordinary  to  you." 

"You  are  no  stranger  to  me,"  cried  he;  "I  have  divined 
you  already,  and  I  would  have  nothing  added  to  your  per- 
fections, except  a  little  more  faith  in  the  love  which  you 
inspire  at  first  sight!" 

"Ah  !  my  poor  boy  of  seventeen,  you  talk  of  love 
already?"  said  she,  smiling.  "Well,  so  be  it.  ... 
'Tis  a  topic  of  conversation  between  man  and  woman, 


A    NOTION    OF    FOUCHE'S.  14! 

like  the  weather  at  a  morning  call.  So  let  us  take  it. 
You  will  find  in  me  no  false  modesty  and  no  littleness  of 
mind.  I  can  listen  to  the  word  'love'  without  blushing. 
It  has  been  said  to  me  so  often,  with  no  heart-accent  in 
it,  that  it  has  become  almost  meaningless.  I  have  heard 
it  in  theatres,  in  books,  in  society,  everywhere.  But  I 
have  never  met  anything  which  corresponded  in  fact  to 
the  magnificent  sentiments  which  it  implies." 

"Have  you  tried  to  find  it?" 

"Yes." 

The  word  wa§  said  with  such  unreserve  that  the  young 
man  started  and  stared  at  Marie  as  if  he  had  changed  his 
mind  suddenly  as  to  her  character  and  station. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  with  ill-concealed  emotion, 
"are  you  a  girl  or  a  woman,  an  angel  or  a  fiend?" 

"I  am  both,"  replied  she,  laughing.  "Is  there  not 
always  something  angelic  and  something  diabolic  as  well 
in  a  young  girl  who  has  never  loved,  who  does  not  love, 
and  who  perhaps  will  never  love?" 

"And  yet  you  are  happy?"  said  he,  with  a  greater  free- 
dom of  tone  and  manner,  as  if  he  already  thoughtless 
respectfully  of  her  who  had  delivered  him. 

"Oh!"  she  said.  "Happy?  No!  When  I  meditate  by 
myself,  and  feel  myself  mastered  by  the  social  conven- 
tions which  make  me  artificial,  I  envy  the  privileges  of 
men.  But  when  I  reflect  on  all  the  means  which  nature 
has  given  us  to  surround  you,  to  wrap  you  in  the  meshes 
of  an  invisible  power  which  none  of  you  can  resist,  then 
my  part  in  this  comedy  here  below  looks  more  promising 
to  me.  And  then,  again,  it  seems  to  me  wretched,  and 
I  feel  that  I  should  despise  a  man  if  he  were  the  dupe  of 
ordinary  allurements.  To  be  brief,  at  one  time  I  see  the 
yoke  we  bear,  and  it  pleases  me,  then  it  seems  horrible, 
and  I  revolt.  At  another  I  feel  that  aspiration  of  self- 


142  THE    CHOUAN9. 

sacrifice  which  makes  woman  so  fair  and  noble  a  thing, 
only  to  experience  afterwards  a  devouring  desire  of  power. 
Perhaps  it  is  but  the  natural  fight  of  the  good  and  evil 
principle  which  makes  up  the  life  of  all  creatures  that  on 
earth  do  dwell.  Both  angel  and  fiend — you  have  said  it ! 
It  is  not  to-day  that  I  came  to  know  my  double  nature. 
Yet  we  women  know  our  weakness  better  than  you  do. 
Do  we  not  possess  an  instinct  which  makes  us  look  in 
everything  towards  a  perfection  too  certainly  impossible 
of  attainment?  But,"  she  added,  with  a  sigh,  and  a 
glance  towards  heaven,  "what  ennobles  us  in  our  own 
eyes — 

"Is  what?"  said  he. 

"Why,"  said  she,  "that  we  all  of  us,  more  or  less, 
maintain  the  struggle  against  our  fated  incompleteness." 

"Mademoiselle,  why  should  we  part  to-night?" 

"Ah!"  she  said,  with  a  smile  at  the  fiery  glance  which- 
the  young  man  darted  on  her,  "we  had  better  get  into  the 
carriage;  the  open  air  is  not  good  for  us." 

Marie  turned  sharply  on  her  heel,  and  the  stranger 
followed,  pressing  her  arm  with  a  vigor  which  was  hardly 
respectful,  but  which  expressed  at  once  adoration  and 
tyrannous  desire.  She  quickened  her  steps;  the  sailor 
perceived  that  she  wished  to  avoid  a  perhaps  inoppor- 
tune declaration,  but  this  only  increased  his  fervor,  and 
setting  all  to  the  touch  in  order  to  gain  a  first  favor 
from  the  girl,  he  said  to  her  with  an  arch  look: 

"Shall  I  tell  you  a  secret?" 

"Tell  it  at  once,  if  it  concerns  yourself." 

"I  am  not  in  the  service  of  the  Republic.  Whither 
are  you  going?  I  will  go  too." 

As  he  spoke.  Marie  trembled  violently,  drew  her  arm 
from  liis,  and  covered  her  face  with  both  hands  to  veil, 
it  might  be  a  flush,  it  might  be  a  pallor,  which  changed  her 


A    NOTION    OP    FOUCHE'S.  143 

appearance.  But  she  uncovered  it  almost  immediately, 
and  said  in  a  tender  tone: 

"You  have  begun,  then,  as  you  would  have  finished,  by 
deceiving  me?" 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

At  this  answer  she  turned  her  back  on  the  bulky  vehicle 
towards  which  they  were  advancing,  and  began  almost  to 
run  in  the  opposite  direction. 

"But,"  said  the  stranger,  "just  now  the  air  did  not 
agree  with  you!  " 

"Oh!  it  has  changed,"  said  she  gravely,  and  still  walk- 
ing on,  a  prey  to  stormy  thoughts. 

"You  are  silent?"  asked  the  stranger,  whose  heart  was 
full  of  the  sweet  flutter  of  apprehension  which  the 
expectation  of  pleasure  brings  with  it. 

"Oh!"  she  said  shortly,  "the  tragedy  has  been  prompt 
enough  in  beginning." 

"What  tragedy  do  you  mean?"  asked  he. 

She  stopped  and  scanned  the  cadet  from  head  to  foot, 
with  an  expression  compact  of  fear  and  interest  both; 
then  she  hid  the  feelings  which  agitated  her  under  an  air 
of  profound  calm,  showing  that,  for  a  young  girl,  she  had 
no  small  experience  of  life. 

"Who  are  you?"  she  said.  "But  I  know — when  I  saw 
you,  I  suspected  it:  you  are  the  Royalist  chief  they  call 
the  Gars.  The  ex-Bishop  of  Autun  is  right  in  telling  us 
always  to  believe  in  presentiments  of  evil." 

"What  concern  have  you  in  knowing  that  person?" 

"What  concern  could  he  have  in  hiding  himself  from 
me,  who  have  already  saved  his  life?" 

She  spoke  with  a  forced  laugh,  and  went  on:  "It  was 
prudent  of  me  to  hinder  your  declaration  of  love.  Know, 
sir,  that  I  hate  you!  I  am  a  Republican,  you  a  Royal- 
ist; and  I  would  give  you  up  if  my  word  were  not 


i44 


THE    CHOUANS. 


pledged  to  you,  if  I  had  not  already  saved  you  once,  and 
if—" 

She  stopped.  This  violent  flux  and  reflux  of  thought, 
this  struggle  which  she  cared 
no  longer  to  hide,  gave  the 
stranger  some  uneasiness,  and 
he  tried,  but  in  vain,  to  sound 
her  intention. 

"Let  us  part  at  once;  I  will 
have  it  so.  Good-bye!"  she 
said,  and  turning  abruptly  she 
made  a  step  or  two;  but  then 
came  back. 

"No!  "      she      continued, 
"my   interest     in     learning 
who    you  are  is    too   great. 
Hide  nothing  from  me    and 
tell     me     the      truth. 
Who  are    you?     For 
are  you  just  as  much 
a  cadet  of  the  school 
as  you  are   a   boy  of 
seventeen — 

"I    am     a      sailor, 


:,-    .-.  -f 

:  *<- 
--^"i»*~ 

j  -"•£- 

* 


>^2 


ready  to  quit  the  sea,  and  follow  you 
whithersoever  your  fancy  guides  me. 


A  NOTION   OF    FOUCHfi'S.  145 

If  I  am  fortunate  enough  to  excite  your  curiosity  by 
anything  mysterious  about  me,  I  shall  take  good  care  not 
to  put  an  end  to  it.  What  is  the  good  of  mixing  up  the 
serious  concerns  of  every-day  life  with  the  life  of  the 
heart  in  which  we  were  beginning  to  understand  each 
other  so  well?" 

"Our  souls  might  have  understood  each  other,"  she 
said  gravely.  "But,  sir,  I  have  no  right  to  claim  your 
confidence.  You  will  never  know  the  extent  of  your 
obligations  to  me;  and  I  shall  hold  my  peace." 

They   walked  some  distance  without  uttering  a  word. 

"You  seem  to  take  a  great  interest  in  my  life,"  said 
the  stranger. 

"Sir,"  she  said,  "I  beg  you  tell  me  your  real  name,  or 
say  nothing!  You  are  childish,"  she  added,  with  a 
shrug  of  her  shoulders,  "and  I  am  sorry  for  you. " 

The  fair  traveler's  persistency  in  trying  to  divine  his 
secret  made  the  self-styled  sailor  hesitate  between  pru- 
dence and  his  desires.  The  vexation  of  a  woman  whom 
we  covet  is  a  powerful  attraction;  her  very  submission  is 
as  conquering  as  her  anger;  it  attacks  so  many  chords  in 
a  man's  heart  that  it  penetrates  and  subjugates  the  heart 
itself.  Was  Mile,  de  Verneuil  merely  trying  a  fresh  trick 
of  coquetry?  In  spite  of  his  passion,  the  stranger 
had  self-command  enough  to  be  mistrustful  of  a  woman 
who  was  so  desperately  set  on  tearing  from  him  a  secret 
of  life  and  death. 

"Why,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand,  which  she  had  let  him 
take  in  absence  of  mind,  "why  has  my  indiscretion, 
which  seemed  to  give  a  future  to  this  day,  destroyed  its 
charm  instead?"  But  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  who  seemed  in 
distress,  was  silent.  "How  have  I  hurt  you?"  he  went 
on,  "and  how  can  I  soothe  you?" 

"Tell  me  your  name. " 
10 


146  THE   CHOUANS. 

Then  the  two  walked  in  silence,  and  they  made  some 
progress  thus.  Suddenly  Mile,  de  Verneuil  halted,  like 
a  person  who  has  made  up  her  mind  on  a  point  of  impor- 
tance: 

"Marquis  of  Montauran, "  said  she  with  dignity,  and 
yet  not  quite  successfully  disguising  an  agitation  that 
made  her  features  quiver  nervously,  "whatever  it  may 
cost  me,  I  am  happy  to  be  able  to  do  you  a  service. 
We  must  part  here.  The  escort  and  the  coach  are  too 
necessary  to  your  safety  for  you  to  refuse  either  one  or 
the  other.  Fear  nothing  from  the  Republicans:  all  these 
soldiers,  look  you,  are  men  of  honor,  and  the  adjutant 
will  faithfully  execute  the  orders  which  I  am  about  to 
give  him.  For  my  part,  I  can  easily  regain  Alencon 
with  my  maid;  some  soldiers  will  accompany  us.  Heed 
me  well,  for  your  life  is  at  stake.  If  before  you  are  in 
safety  you  meet  the  hideous  dandy  whom  you  saw  at  the 
inn,  fly,  for  he  will  give  you  up  at  once.  For  me — 
She  paused.  "For  me,  I  plunge  back  with  pride  into  the 
petty  cares  of  life."  And  then  she  went  on  in  a  low 
voice,  and  choking  back  her  tears,  "Good-bye,  sir!  May 
you  be  happy!  Good-bye!"  And  she  beckoned  to  Cap- 
tain Merle,  who  was  just  reaching  the  brow  of  the  hill. 

The  young  man  was  not  prepared  for  so  sudden  an  end- 
ing. 

"Wait!'  he  cried,  with  a  kind  of  despair,  cleverly 
enough  feigned.  The  girl's  strange  whim  surprised  the 
stranger  so  much  that,  though  he  would  at  the  moment 
have  laid  down  his  life  for  her,  he  devised  a  most  repre- 
hensible trick  in  order  at  once  to  hide  his  name  and  to 
satisfy  Mile,  de  Verneuil's  curiosity. 

"You  have  nearly  guessed  it,"  he  said.  "I  am  an  emi- 
grant, under  sentence  of  death,  and  I  am  called  the 
Vicomte  de  Ban  van.  Love  of  my  country  has  brought 


A    NOTION    01"'    FOUCIiL/.S.  147 

me  back  to  France,  to  my  brother's  side.  I  hope  to  have 
my  name  erased  from  the  list  by  the  aid  of  Madame  de 
Beauharnais,  now  the  First  Consul's  wife;  but  if  I  do 
not  succeed  in  this,  then  I  will  die  on  my  natal  soil,  fight- 
ing by  the  side  of  my  friend  Montauran.  My  first  object 
is  to  go  and  see,  with  the  aid  of  a  passport  which  he  has 
given  me,  whether  any  of  my  estates  in  Brittany  remain 
to  me." 

As  the  young  noble  spoke,  Mile,  de  Verneuil  examined 
him  with  her  keen  eye.  She  tried  to  doubt  the  truth  of 
his  words;  but,  lulled  into  credulous  confidence,  she 
slowly  regained  her  serene  expression,  and  cried,  "Sir!  is 
what  you  are  telling  me  true?" 

"Perfectly  true,"  replied  the  stranger,  whose  standard 
of  honor  in  dealing  with  women  did  not  appear  to  be  high. 

Mile,  de  Verneuil  drew  a  deep  sigh  like  one  who  comes 
back  to  life. 

"Ah!"  cried  she,   "I  am  quite  happy." 

"Then  do  you  hate  my  poor  Montauran  very  much?" 

"No,"  said  she.  "You  cannot  understand  me.  I  could 
not  wish  you  to  be  exposed  to  dangers  against  which  I 
will  try  to  defend  him,  since  he  is  your  friend." 

"Who  told  you  that  Montauran  is  in  danger?" 

"Why,  sir,  even  if  I  did  not  come  from  Paris,  where 
everyone  is  talking  of  his  enterprise,  the  commandant  at 
Alencon  said  enough  to  us  about  him,  I  should  think." 

"Then  I  must  ask  you  how  you  can  preserve  him  from 
danger?" 

"  And  suppose  I  do  not  choose  to  answer? "  said  she, 
with  the  air  of  disdain  under  which  women  know  so  well 
how  to  conceal  their  emotions.  "What  right  have  you  to 
know  my  secrets?" 

"The  right  which  belongs  to  a  man  who  loves  you." 

"What,  already?"  she  said.      "No,   sir,  you  do  not  love 


148  THE    CHOUANS. 

me!  You  see  in  me  an  object  of  passing  gallantry,  that 
is  all.  Did  I  not  understand  you  at  once?  Could  anyone 
who  has  been  accustomed  to  good  society  make  a  mis- 
take, in  the  present  state  of  manners,  when  she  heard 
a  cadet  of  the  Ecole  Polytechnique  pick  his  words,  and 
disguise,  as  clumsily  as  you  did,  the  breeding  of  a  gentle- 
man under  a  Republican  outside?  Why,  your  very  hair 
has  a  trace  of  powder,  and  there  is  an  atmosphere  of 
gentility  about  you  which  any  woman  of  fashion  must 
perceive  at  once.  Therefore,  trembling  lest  my  overseer, 
who  is  as  sharp  as  a  woman,  should  recognize  you,  I  dis- 
missed him  at  once.  Sir,  a  real  Republican  officer,  who 
had  just  left  the  Ecole  Polytechnique,  would  not  fancy 
himself  about  to  make  a  conquest  of  me,  or  take  me  for 
a  pretty  adventuress.  Permit  me,  M.  de  Bauvan,  to  lay 
before  you  some  slight  considerations  of  woman's  wit  on 
this  point.  Are  you  so  young  as  not  to  know  that  of  all 
creatures  of  our  sex  the  most  difficult  to  conquer  is  she 
whose  price  is  quoted  in  the  market,  and  who  is  already 
weary  of  pleasure?  Such  a  woman,  they  say,  requires 
immense  efforts  to  win  her,  and  yields  only  to  her  own 
caprices.  To  try  to  excite  affection  in  her  is  the  ne  plus 
ultra  of  coxcombry.  Putting  aside  this  class  of  women, 
with  whom  you  are  gallant  enough  (since  they  are  all 
bound  to  be  beautiful)  to  rank  me,  do  you  not  under- 
stand that  a  girl,  young,  well-born,  beautiful,  witty  (you 
allow  me  all  these  gifts),  is  not  for  sale,  and  can  be  won 
only  in  one  way — by  loving  her?  You  understand  me? 
If  she  loves  and  chooses  to  stoop  to  folly,  she  must  at 
least  have  some  greatness  of  feeling  to  excuse  her  Par- 
don me  this  lavishness  of  logic,  so  rare  with  those  of  our 
sex.  But  for  the  sake  of  your  happiness,  and,"  she  added, 
with  a  bow,  "of  mine,  I  would  not  have  either  of  us 
deceived  as  to  the  other's  real  worth,  nor  would  I  have 


A   NOTION    OF    FOUCHfc's.  149 

you  think  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  be  she  angel  or  fiend, 
woman  or  girl,  capable  of  being  caught  with  common- 
place gallantries." 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  the  pretended  viscount,  whose 
surprise,  though  he  concealed  it,  was  immense,  and  who 
at  once  became  a  man  of  the  finest  manners,  "I  beg  you 
to  believe  that  I  take  you  for  a  very  noble  person,  great 
of  heart,  and  full  of  lofty  sentiments,  or  for  a  kind  girl,  just 
as  you  choose. " 

"That  is  more  than  I  ask  for,  sir,"  she  said,  laughing. 
"Leave  me  my  incognito.  Besides,  I  wear  my  mask  better 
than  you  do,  and  it  pleases  me  to  keep  it  on,  were  it  only 
for  the  purpose  of  knowing  whether  people  who  talk  to 
me  of  love  are  sincere.  .  .  .  Therefore,  do  not  play 
too  bold  strokes  with  me.  Listen,  sir,"  she  added, 
grasping  his  arm  firmly,  "if  you  could  convince  me  that 
you  love  me  truly,  no  power  on  earth  should  tear  us 
asunder.  Yes!  I  would  gladly  throw  in  my  lot  with 
some  man's  great  career,  wed  with  some  huge  ambition, 
share  some  high  thoughts.  Noble  hearts  are  not  incon- 
stant, for  fidelity  is  one  of  their  strong  points.  I  should 
be  loved  always,  always  happy.  But  I  should  not  be 
always  ready  to  make  myself  a  ladder  whereon  my 
beloved  might  mount,  to  sacrifice  myself  for  him,  to  bear 
all  from  him,  to  love  him  always,  even  when  he  had 
ceased  to  love  me.  I  have  never  yet  dared  to  confide  to 
another  heart  the  wishes  of  my  own,  the  passionate 
enthusiasm  which  consumes  me;  but  I  may  say  some- 
thing of  the  sort  to  you,  since  we  shall  part  as  soon  as 
you  are  in  safety. " 

"Part?  Never!  "  he  cried,  electrified  by  the  speech  of  this 
energetic  soul,  that  seemed  wrestling  with  mighty  thoughts. 

"Are  you  your  own  master?"  replied  she,  with  a  dis- 
dainful glance,  which  brought  hini  to  his  level, 


150  THE    CHOUANS. 

"My  own  master?  Yes,  except  for  my  sentence  of 
death." 

"Then,"  she  said,  with  a  voice  full  of  bitter  feeling, 
"if  all  this  were  not  a  dream,  how  fair  a  life  were  ours! 
But  if  I  have  talked  follies,  let  us  do  none.  When  I 
think  of  all  that  you  should  be  if  you  are  to  rate  me  at 
my  just  worth,  everything  seems  to  me  doubtful." 

"And  I  should  doubt  of  nothing  if  you  would  be  mine." 

"Hush!"  she  cried,  hearing  these  words  spoken  with  a 
true  accent  of  passion.  "The  fresh  air  is  getting  really 
too  much  for  you ;  let  us  go  to  our  chaperons. " 

The  coach  was  not  long  in  catching  the  couple  up;  they 
took  their  seats  once  more,  and  for  some  leagues  jour- 
neyed in  profound  silence.  But  if  both  had  gathered 
matter  for  abundant  thought,  their  eyes  were  no  longer 
afraid  of  meeting.  Both  seemed  equally  concerned  in 
watching  each  other  and  in  hiding  important  secrets,  but 
both  felt  the  mutual  attraction  of  a  desire  which,  since 
their  conversation,  had  acquired  the  strength  and  range 
of  a  passion;  for  each  had  recognized  in  the  other  qual- 
ities which  promised  in  their  eyes  yet  livelier  delights — 
it  might  be  from  conflict,  it  might  be  from  union.  Per- 
chance each  of  them,  already  launched  on  an  adventurous 
career,  had  arrived  at  that  strange  condition  of  mind 
when,  either  out  of  mere  weariness  or  as  a  challenge  to 
fate,  men  simply  decline  to  reflect  seriously  on  their 
situation,  and  abandon  themselves  to  the  chapter  of  acci- 
dents as  they  pursue  their  object,  precisely  because  exit 
seems  hopeless,  and  they  are  content  to  wait  for  the 
fated  ending.  Has  not  moral,  like  physical  nature, 
gulfs  and  abysses,  where  strong  minds  love  to  plunge 
at  the  risk  of  life,  as  a  gambler  loves  to  stake  his  whole 
fortune?  The  young  noble  and  Mile,  de  Verneuil  had, 
as  it  were,  a  glimpse  of  such  ideas  as  these,  which  both 


A   NOTION   OF    FOUCHfi's.  151 

shared,  after  the  conversation  of  which  they  were  the 
natural  sequel ;  and  thus  they  made  a  sudden  and  vast 
stride  in  intimacy,  the  sympathy  of  their  souls  follow- 
ing that  of  their  senses.  Nevertheless,  the  more  fatally 
they  felt  themselves  drawn  each  to  the  other,  the  more 
interest  they  took  in  mutual  study,  were  it  only  to 
augment,  by  the  result  of  unconscious  calculation,  the 
amount  of  their  future  joys.  The  young  man,  still 
astonished  at  the  strange  girl's  depth  of  thought,  asked 
himself  first  how  she  managed  to  combine  so  much 
acquired  knowledge  with  so  much  freshness  and  youth. 
Next  he  thought  that  he  could  discern  a  certain  strong 
desire  of  appearing  innocent  in  the  extreme  innocence 
with  which  Marie  endeavored  to  imbue  her  ways;  he 
suspected  her  of  feigning,  found  fault  with  himself  for 
his  delight,  and  tried  to  see  in  the  strange  lady  nothing 
but  a  clever  actress.  He  was  right.  Mile,  de  Verneuil, 
like  all  young  women  who  have  gone  much  into  society, 
increased  her  apparent  reserve  the  warmer  were  her  real 
feelings,  and  assumed  in  the  most  natural  way  in  the  world 
the  prudish  demeanor  under  which  women  are  able  to 
veil  their  most  violent  desires.  All  of  them  would,  if 
they  could,  present  a  virgin  front  to  passion;  and  if 
they  cannot,  their  semblance  of  it  is  still  an  homage 
paid  to  their  loye.  The  young  noble  thought  all  this 
rapidly  enough,  and  it  pleased  him.  For  both,  in  fact, 
this  exchange  of  study  was  sure  to  be  an  advance  in  love; 
and  the  lover  soon  came,  by  means  of  it,  to  that  phase 
of  passion  when  a  man  finds  in  the  very  faults  of  his 
mistress  reasons  for  loving  her  more.  The  pensiveness 
of  Mile,  de  Verneuil  lasted  longer  than  the  emigrant's; 
it  might  be  that  her  lively  fancy  made  her  look  forward 
to  a  longer  future.  The  young  man  merely  obeyed  a 
single  one  of  the  thousand  feelings  which  his  man's  life 


152  THE    CHOUANS. 

was  sure  to  make  him  experience;  the  girl  saw  her 
whole  life  before  her,  and  delighted  in  arranging  it  in 
beauty,  in  filling  it  with  happiness,  with  honor,  with 
noble  sentiment.  Happy  in  her  own  thoughts,  as  much 
enamored  of  her  dreams  as  of  reality,  of  the  future  as  of 
the  present,  Marie  tried  to  hark  back,  so  as  to  clinch 
her  hold  of  the  young  man's  heart — an  instinctive 
movement  with  her,  as  with  all  women.  She  had 
made  up  her  mind  to  surrender  entirely;  but  she  still 
wished,  so  to  say,  to  haggle  over  details.  She  would 
have  willingly  revoked  everything  that  she  had  done — 
in  speech,  in  glance,  in  action — during  the  past,  so  as 
to  make  it  harmonize  with  the  dignity  of  a  woman 
who  is  loved.  And  so  her  eyes  exhibited  now  and 
then  a  kind  of  affright,  as  she  thought  of  the  past 
conversation  in  which  she  had  taken  so  high  a  ground. 
But  as  she  looked  on  his  face — so  full  of  vigor — 
she  thought  that  such  a  being  must  be  generous  as  he 
was  strong;  and  felt  herself  happy  in  a  lot  fairer 
than  that  of  most  other  women,  in  that  she  had  found  a 
lover  in  a  man  with  a  character  of  his  own — a  man  who, 
despite  the  sentence  of  death  hanging  over  his  head,  had 
come  of  his  own  accord  to  stake  it,  and  to  make  war 
against  the  Republic.  The  thought  of  unshared  domin- 
ion over  such  a  soul  soon  presented  the  color  of  all 
actual  things  quite  differently  to  her.  There  was  the 
difference  of  a  dead  and  a  living  universe  between  the 
time  when,  some  five  hours  earlier,  she  had  made  up  her 
face  and  voice  to  serve  as  baits  for  this  gentleman,  and 
the  present  moment,  when  a  look  of  hers  could  overcome 
him.  Her  cheerful  laughs,  her  gay  coquetries,  hid  a 
depth  of  passion  which  presented  itself,  like  misfortune, 
with  a  smile.  In  the  state  of  mind  in  which  Mile,  de 
Verneuil  then  was,  outward  existence  seemed  to  her 


A    NOTION    OF    FOUCHfi's.  153 

a  mere  phantasmagoria.  The  coach  passed  villages, 
valleys,  hills,  whereof  no  impression  charged  her 
memory.  She  came  to  Mayenne;  the  soldiers  of  the 
escort  were  relieved.  Merle  spoke  to  her,  she  answered, 
she  crossed  the  city,  she  began  her  journey  afresh;  but 
faces,  houses,  streets,  landscapes,  men,  slipped  by  her 
like  the  unsubstantial  shapes  of  a  dream.  Night  fell. 
But  Marie  traveled  on  under  a  starry  heaven,  wrapped  in 
soft  light,  along  the  Fougeres  road,  without  even  think- 
ing that  the  face  of  the  sky  had  changed,  without  even 
knowing  what  Mayenne  meant,  what  Fougeres,  or 
whither  she  was  going.  That  she  might  in  a  few  hours 
be  parted  from  the  man  she  bad  chosen,  and  who,  as  she 
thought,  had  chosen  her,  did  not  enter  her  thoughts  as 
possible.  Love  is  the  only  passion  which  knows  noth- 
ing of  past  or  future.  If  at  times  her  thoughts  trans- 
lated themselves  into  words,  the  words  which  escaped 
her  were  almost  destitute  of  meaning.  Yet  still  they 
echoed  in  her  lover's  heart  like  a  promise  of  delight. 
Both  witnesses  of  this  birth  of  passion  saw  that  it  grew 
with  terrible  rapidity.  Francine  knew  Marie  as  well  as 
the  strange  lady  knew  the  young  man;  and  their  knowl- 
edge of  the  past  filled  them  with  silent  expectation  of 
some  alarming  catastrophe.  Nor  as  a  matter  of  fact 
were  they  long  in  seeing  the  end  of  the  drama  to  which 
Mile,  de  Verneuil  had  given,  perhaps  unconsciously,  the 
ominous  name  of  tragedy. 

The  four  travelers  had  journeyed  about  a  league 
beyond  Mayenne,  when  they  heard  a  horseman  galloping 
at  the  top  of  his  speed  towards  them.  He  had  no  sooner 
caught  up  the  carriage  than  he  stooped  to  gaze  at  Mile, 
de  Verneuil,  who  recognized  Corentin.  This  sinister 
person  permitted  himself  a  meaning  gesture,  the  familiar 
nature  of  which  was  a  kind  of  insult,  and  disappeared, 


154  THE   CHOUANS. 

after  striking  her  blood  cold  with  this  vulgar  signal. 
The  incident  seemed  to  strike  the  emigrant  disagreeably, 
and  certainly  did  not  escape  his  so-called  mother;  but 
Marie  touched  him  lightly  and,  by  a  glance,  seemed  to 
implore  a  refuge  in  his  heart,  as  if  it  were  the  only 
asylum  open  to  her  on  earth.  The  young  man's  brow 
cleared  as  he  felt  the  pleasurable  influence  of  the 
gesture,  in  which  his  mistress  had  revealed,  as  though 
by  "oversight,  the  extent  of  her  attachment.  A  fear 
which  she  did  not  understand  had  banished  all  her 
coquetry,  and  for  an  instant  love  showed  himself 
unveiled;  they  seemed  not  to  dare  to  speak,  as  if  for 
fear  of  breaking  the  sweet  spell  of  the  moment. 
Unluckily,  the  watchful  eye  of  Madame  du  Gua  was  in 
their  midst;  and  she,  like  a  miser  presiding  at  a  feast, 
seemed  to  count  their  morsels  and  dole  them  out  their 
space  of  life.  Given  up  to  their  happiness,  the  two 
lovers  arrived,  without  consciousness  of  the  long  journey 
they  had  made,  at  that  part  of  the  road  which  is  at  the 
bottom  of  the  valley  of  Ernee,  the  first  of  the  three 
hollows  forming  the  scene  of  the  events  which  open  our 
history.  There  Francine  perceived,  and  pointed  out  to 
her  mistress,  some  singular  figures  which  seemed  to  flit 
like  shadows  across  the  trees  and  amidst  the  ajoncs 
which  surrounded  the  fields.  But  when  the  carriage 
came  within  range  of  these  shadows,  a  volley  of  mus- 
ketry (the  balls  passing  over  their  heads)  told  the  trav- 
elers that  there  was  a  solid  reality  in  these  apparitions. 
The  escort  had  fallen  into  an  ambuscade 

At  this  lively  fusillade  Captain  Merle  felt  a  regret  as 
lively,  that  he  had  shared  the  miscalculation  of  Mile,  de 
Verneuil,  who,  in  her  belief  that  a  quick  march  by 
night  would  be  exposed  to  no  danger,  had  only  allowed 
him  to  take  some  threescore  men.  Under  Gerard's 


A  NOTION   OF    FOUCHfi's. 


J55 


orders  the  captain  at  once  divided  his  little  force  into 
two  columns,  so  as  to  take  the  two  sides  of  the  road, 
and  each  officer  set  out  at  a  brisk  run  across  the  fields 
of  broom  and  ajoncs,  desirous  to  engage  the  enemy  with- 
out even  waiting  to  discover  their  numbers.  The  Blues 
began  to  beat  these  thick  bushes  to  left  and  to  right 
with  a  valor  by  no  means  tempered  with  discretion,  and 
replied  to  the  Chouans'  attack  by  a  well  sustained  fire 
into  the  broom-tufts  whence  the  hostile  shots  came. 
Mile,  de  Verneuil's  first  impulse  had  been  to  leap  from 
the  coach  and  run  back,  so  as  to  put  as  long  a  space  as 
possible  between  herself  and  the  battle-field;  but  then, 
ashamed  of  her  fear,  and  influenced  by  the  natural 
desire  to  show  nobly  in  the  eyes  of  a  beloved  object, 
she  stood  motionless,  and  tried  to  walch  the  combat 
calmly.  The  emigrant  followed  her  movements,  took  her 
hand  and  placed  it  on  his  heart. 

"I  was  afraid,"  she  said,  smiling,  "but  now — 
At  that  moment  her  maid  exclaimed  in  a  fright,  "Marie! 
take  care!"  But  Francine,  who  had  made  as  though  to 
spring  from  the  carriage,  felt  herself  stopped  by  a 
strong  hand,  the  enormous  weight  of  which  drew  a 
sharp  cry  from  her.  But  when  she  turned  her  head  and 
recognized  the  face  of  Marche-a-Terre,  she  became  silent. 
"To  your  mistake,  then,"  said  the  stranger  to  Mile,  de 
Verneuil,  "I  shall  owe  the  discovery  of  secrets  the 
sweetest  to  the  heart.  Thanks  to  Francine,  I  learn  that 
you  bear  the  lovely  name  of  Marie — Marie,  the  name 
which  I  have  always  invoked  in  my  moments  of  sorrow! 
Marie,  the  name  that  I  shall  henceforth  invoke  in  my 
joy,  '  and  which  I  can  never  mention  without  sacrile- 
giously mingling  religion  and  love.  Yet  can  it  be  a  crime 
to  love  and  pray  at  the  same  time?"  As  he  spoke  each 
clutched  the  other's  hand  tight,  and  they  gazed  in  silence 


156  THE    CHOUANS. 

at  each  other,  the  very  excess  of  their  feeling  depriving 
them  of  the  ability  to  express  it. 

"There  is  no  danger  for  you, "  said  Marche-a-Terre 
roughly  to  Francine,  infusing  into  his  voice,  naturally 
harsh  and  guttural,  a  sinister  tone  of  reproach,  and 
emphasizing  his  words  in  a  manner  which  struck  the 
innocent  peasant  with  terror.  Never  before  had  the  poor 
girl  seen  ferocity  in  the  looks  of  Marche-a-Terre.  Moon- 
light seemed  the  only  suitable  illumination  for  his 
aspect ;  and  the  fierce  Breton,  his  bonnet  in  one  hand, 
his  heavy^  rifle  in  the  other,  his  form  huddled  together 
like  a  gnome's,  and  wrapped  in  those  floods  of  pallid 
light  which  give  such  weird  outlines  to  all  shapes,  looked 
a  creature  of  fairy-land  rather  than  of  the  actual 
world.  The  appearance,  and  the  reproach  it  uttered, 
had  also  a  ghost-like  rapidity.  He  turned  abruptly  to 
Madame  du  Gua  and  exchanged  some  quick  words  with 
her,  of  which  Francine,  who  had  almost  forgotten  her 
Low-Breton,  could  catch  nothing.  The  lady  appeared 
to  be  giving  repeated  commands  to  Marche-a-Terre,  and 
the  brief  colloquy  ended  by  an  imperious  gesture  with 
which  she  pointed  to  the  two  lovers.  Before  obeying, 
Marche-a-Terre  cast  a  final  glance  at  Francine;  he 
seemed  to  pity  her,  and  to  wish  to  speak  to  her;  but  the 
Breton  girl  understood  that  her  lover's  silence  was  due 
to  orders.  The  man's  tanned  and  rugged  skin  seemed  to 
wrinkle  on  his  forehead,  and  his  eyebrows  were  strongly 
contracted.  Was  he  resisting  a  fresh  order  to  kill  Mile, 
de  Verneuil?  The  grimace  no  doubt  made  him  look 
more  hideous  than  ever  to  Madame  du  Gua;  but  the 
flash  of  his  eye  took  a  gentler  meaning  for  Francine, 
who,  guessing  from  it  that  her  woman's  will  could  still 
master  the  energy  of  this  wild  man,  hoped  still  to  reign, 
under  God,  over  his  savage  heart.  The  sweet  converse 


A   NOTION  OF    FOUCHfi'S.  157 

in  which  Marie  was  engaged  was  interrupted  by  Madame 
du  Gua,  who  came  up  and  caught  hold  of  her,  uttering 
a  cry  as  if  there  were  some  sudden  danger.  But  her 
real  object  was  merely  to  give  one  of  the  members  of 
the  Alencon  Royalist  committee,  whom  she  recognized, 
an  opportunity  of  speaking  freely  to  the  emigrant. 

"Do  not  trust  the  girl  you  met  at   'The  Three  Moors.'  " 

Having  whispered  these  words  in  the  young  man's  ear, 
the  Chevalier  de  Valois,  mounted  on  a  Breton  pony, 
disappeared  in  the  broom  from  which  he  had  just 
emerged.  At  the  same  moment  the  musketry  swelled 
into  a  rolling  fire  of  astonishing  briskness,  but  no  close 
fighting  took  place. 

"Adjutant,"  said  Clef-des-Cceurs,  "may  it  not  be  a 
feigned  attack,  in  order  to  carry  off  our  travelers,  and 
put  them  to  ransom?  " 

"The  devil  take  me  if  you  have  not  hit  it!"  cried 
Gerard,  hastening  back  to  the  road. 

But  at  the  same  time  the  Chouans'  fire  slackened,  for 
the  real  object  of  the  skirmish  had  been  to  effect  the 
communication  which  the  chevalier  had  made  to  the  )roung 
man.  Merle,  who  saw  them  making  off  in  no  great 
numbers  across  the  hedges,  did  not  think  it  worth  while 
to  entangle  himself  in  a  struggle  which  could  not  be 
profitable,  and  might  be  dangerous;  while  Gerard  with 
an  order  or  two  reformed  the  escort  on  the  road,  and 
began  his  march  once  more,  having  suffered  no  losses. 
The  captain  had  an  opportunity  of  offering  his  hand  to 
Mile,  de  Verneuil,  that  she  might  take  her  seat,  for  the 
young  nobleman  remained  standing  as  if  thunderstruck. 
Surprised  at  this,  the  Parisian  girl  got  in  without 
accepting  the  Republican's  courtesy.  She  turned  towards 
her  lover,  saw  his  motionless  attitude,  and  was  stupefied 
at  the  change  which  the  chevalier's  mysterious  words 


158  THE   CHOUANS. 

had  produced.     The  young  emigrant  came  slowly  back, 
and  his  air  showed  a  deep  sense  of  disgust. 

"Was  I  not  right?"  whispered  Madame  du  Gua  in  his 
ear,  as  she  walked  with  him  back  to  the  carriage;  "we 
are  certainly  in  the  hands  of  a  creature  who  has  entered 
into  a  bargain  for  your  life.  But  since  she  is  fool 
enough  to* fall  in  love  with  you,  instead  of  attending  to 
her  business,  do  not  yourself  behave  childishly,  but 
feign  love  for  her,  till  we  have  reached  the  Vivetiere 
When  we  are  once  there —  But  can  he  be  actually  in 
love  with  her  already?"  said  she  to  herself,  seeing  the 
young  man  motionless  in  his  place,  like  one  asleep. 

The  coach  rolled  almost  noiselessly  along  the  sandy 
road.  At  the  first  glance  that  Mile,  de  Verneuil  cast 
around  her,  all  seemed  changed.  Death  was  already 
creeping  upon  her  love.  There  was  nothing,  perhaps,  but 
a  mere  shade  of  difference,  but  such  a  shade,  in  the  eyes 
of  a  loving  woman,  affords  as  great  a  contrast  as  the 
liveliest  colors.  Francine  had  understood  by  Marche-a- 
Terre's  look,  that  the  destiny  of  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  over 
which  she  had  bidden  him  watch,  was  in  other  hands 
than  his;  and  she  exhibited  a  pale  countenance,  unable 
to  refrain  from  tears,  when  her  mistress  looked  at  her. 
The  unknown  lady  hid  but  ill,  under  feigned  smiles, 
the  spite  of  feminine  revenge,  and  the  sudden  change 
which  her  excessive  attentions  towards  Mile,  de  Ver- 
neuil infused  into  her  attitude,  her  voice,  and  her  features, 
was  of  a  nature  to  give  alarm  to  a  sharp-sighted  person. 
So  Mile,  de  Verneuil  instinctively  shuddered,  asking 
herself  the  while,  "Why  did  I  shudder?  she  is  his 
mother;"  and  then  she  trembled  all  over  a»  she  sud- 
denly said  to  herself,  "But  is  she  really  his  mother?" 
She  saw  before  her  an  abyss  which  was  finally  illumi- 
nated by  a  last  glance  which  she  cast  at  the  stranger. 


A    NOTION    OF    POUCHfi's.  139 

"The  woman  loves  him!  "  she  thought.  "But  why  load  me 
with  attentions,  after  showing  me  so  much  coolness? 
Am  I  lost?  Or  is  she  afraid  of  me?" 

As  for  the  emigrant,  he  grew  red  and  pale  by  turns, 
and  preserved  a  calm  appearance  only  by  dropping  his 
eyes  so  as  to  hide  the  singular  emotions  which  disturbed 
him.  The  agreeable  curve  of  his  lips  was  spoiled  by 
their  being  tightly  pinched,  and  his  complexion  yellowed 
with  the  violence  of  his  stormy  thoughts.  Mile,  de 
Verneuil  could  not  even  discover  whether  there  was  any 
love  left  amid  this  rage.  But  the  road,  which  at  this 
spot  was  lined  with  trees,  became  dark,  and  prevented 
the  silent  actors  in  this  drama  from  questioning  each 
other  with  their  eyes.  The  sighing  oi  the  wind,  the 
rustle  of  the  tufted  trees,  the  measured  pulse  of  the 
escort's  tramp,  gave  the  scene  that  solemn  character 
which  quickens  the  heart's  beats.  It  was  not  possible 
for  Mile,  de  Verneuil  to  seek  long  in  vain  for  the  cause 
of  the  change.  The  remembrance  of  Corentin  passed 
like  lightning  across  her  mind,  and  brought  with  it  the 
image,  as  it  were,  of  her  true  destiny,  suddenly  appear- 
ing before  her.  For  the  first  time  since  the  morning  she 
reflected  seriously  on  her  position.  Till  that  moment 
she  had  simply  let  herself  enjoy  the  happiness  of  loving 
without  thinking  either  of  herself  or  of  the  future. 
Unable  any  longer  to  endure  her  anguish,  she  waited 
with  the  gentle  patience  of  love  for  one  of  the  young 
man's  glances,  and  returned  it  with  one  of  such  lively 
supplication,  with  a  pallor  and  a  shudder  possessing  so 
thrilling  an  eloquence,  that  he  wavered.  But  the  catas- 
trophe was  only  the  more  thorough. 

"Are  you  ill,  mademoiselle?"  he  asked. 

The  voice  without  a  touch  of  kindness,  the  question 
itself,  the  look,  the  gesture,  all  helped  to  convince  the 


l6o  THE    CHOUANS. 

poor  girl  that  the  incidents  of  the  day  had  been  part  of 
a  soul-mirage,  which  was  vanishing  like  the  shapeless 
wreck  which  the  wind  carries  away. 

"Am  I  ill?"  she  replied,  with  a  forced  laugh.  "I  was 
going  to  put  the  same  question  to  you." 

"I  thought  you  understood  each  other,"  said  Madame 
du  Gua,  with  assumed  good-humor. 

But  neither  the  young  nobleman  nor  Mile,  de  Verneuil 
answered.  She,  doubly  offended,  was  indignant  at  find- 
ing her  mighty  beauty  without  might.  She  knew  well 
enough  that  at  any  moment  she  pleased  she  could  learn 
the  enigma  of  the  situation;  but  she  felt  little  curi- 
osity to  penetrate  it,  and,  for  the  first  time,  perhaps,  a 
woman  recoiled  before  a  secret.  Human  life  is  sadly 
prolific  of  circumstances  where,  in  consequence  it  may 
be  of  too  deep  a  study,  it  may  be  of  some  sudden  dis- 
aster, our  ideas  lose  all  coherence,  have  no  substance, 
no  regular  starting-point;  where  the  present  finds  all  the 
bonds  cut  which  unite  it  to  the  future  and  the  past. 
Such  was  Mile,  de  Verneuil's  state.  She  reclined,  her 
head  bent,  in  the  back  of  the  carriage,  and  lay  like  an 
uprooted  shrub,  speechless  and  suffering.  She  looked  at 
no  one,  wrapped  herself  in  grief,  and  abode  with  such 
persistence  in  the  strange  world  of  grief  where  the 
unhappy  take  refuge,  that  she  lost  sight  of  things 
around.  Ravens  passed,  croaking,  over  the  heads  of  the 
party,  but  though,  like  all  strong  minds,  she  kept  a 
corner  of  her  soul  for  superstitions,  she  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  them.  The  travelers  journeyed  for  some  time  in 
total  silence. 

"Parted  already!  "  thought  Mile,  de  Verneuil  to  her- 
self. "Yet  nothing  round  me  has  told  tales!  Can  it  be 
Corentin?  He  has  no  interest  in  doing  so.  Who  has 
arisen  as  my  accuser?  I  had  scarcely  begun  to  be  loved, 


A  NOTION  OF   FOUCHt's.  l6l 

and  lo!  the  horror  of  desertion  is  already  upon  me.  I 
sowed  affection  and  I  reap  contempt.  Is  it  my  fate,  then, 
always  to  come  in  sight  of  happiness  and  always  to  lose 
it?" 

She  was  feeling  a  trouble  strange  to  her  heart,  for  she 
loved  really  and  for  the  first  time.  Yet  she  was  not  so 
much  given  up  to  her  grief  but  that  she  could  find 
resources  against  it  in  the  pride  natural  to  a  young  and 
beautiful  woman.  She  had  not  published  the  secret  of 
her  love — a  secret  which  tortures  will  often  fail  to  draw 
forth.  She  rallied;  and,  ashamed  of  giving  the  measure 
of  her  passion  by  her  silent  suffering,  she  shook  her  head 
gayly,  showed  a  smiling  face,  or  rather  a  smiling  mask, 
and  put  constraint  on  her  voice  to  disguise  its  altered 
tone. 

"Where  are  we?"  she  asked  of  Captain  Merle,  who 
still  kept  his  place  at  a  little  distance  from  the  coach. 

"Three  leagues  and  a  half  from  Fougeres,  mademoi- 
selle." 

"Then,  we  shall  get  there  soon?"  she  said,  to  tempt 
him  to  enter  on  a  conversation  in  which  she  intended 
to  show  the  young  captain  some  favor. 

"These  leagues,"  answered  Merle,  overjoyed,  "are  not 
very  long  in  themselves:  but  in  this  country  they  take 
the  liberty  of  never  coming  to  an  end.  When  you 
reach  the  summit  of  the  ridge  we  are  climbing,  you 
will  perceive  a  valley  like  that  which  we  shall  soon 
quit,  and  on  the  horizon  you  will  then  see  the  summit  of 
the  Pilgrim.  Pray  God,  the  Chouans  may  not  try  to  play 
a  return  match  there !  Now  you  ca;a  understand  that 
in  going  up  and  down  like  this,  one  does  not  make  much 
progress.  From  the  Pilgrim  you  will  then  see — 

As  he  spoke  the  emigrant  started  a  second  time,  but 
so  slightly  that  only  Mile,  de  Verneuil  noticed  the  start. 


1 62  THE    CHOUANS. 

"What  is  the  Pilgrim?"  asked  the  young  lady  briskly, 
interrupting  the  captain's  lecture  on  Breton  topography. 

"It  is,"  answered  Merle,  "a  hill-top  which  gives  its 
name  to  the  valley  of  Maine,  whereupon  we  are  going 
to  enter,  and  which  separates  that  province  from  the 
valley  of  the  Couesnon.  At  the  other  end  of  this  valley 
is  Fougeres,  the  first  town  in  Brittany.  We  had  a  fight 
there,  at  the  end  of  Vendemiaire,  with  the  Gars  and  his 
brigands.  We  were  escorting  some  conscripts,  who,  to 
save  themselves  from  leaving  their  country,  wanted  to 
kill  us  on  the  border  line.  But  Hulot  is  an  ugly  cus- 
tomer, and  he  gave  them— 

"Then,  you  must  have  seen  the  Gars?"  asked  she. 
"What  sort  of  a  man  is  he?" 

And  as  she  spoke  she  never  took  her  piercing  and  sar- 
castic glance  off  the  pretended  Vicomte  de  Bauvan. 

"Well,  really,  mademoiselle,"  said  Merle,  who  was 
doomed  to  be  interrupted,  "he  is  so  like  the  Citizen  du 
Gua  that  if  he  did  not  wear  the  uniform  of  the  Ecole 
Polytechnique,  I  would  bet  that  it  is  he." 

Mile,  de  Verneuil  gazed  at  the  young  man,  who,  cool 
and  motionless,  continued  to  regard  her  with  contempt. 
She  saw  nothing  in  him  that  could  betray  a  feeling  of 
fear;  but  she  let  him  know  by  a  bitter  smile  that  she 
was  discovering  the  secret  he  had  so  dishonorably  kept. 
And  then,  in  a  mocking  voice,  her  nostrils  quivering 
with  joy,  her  head  on  one  side,  so  as  to  look  at  Merle 
and  examine  the  young  noble  at  the  same  time,  she  said 
to  the  Republican: 

"The  First  Consul,  captain,  is  very  much  concerned 
about  this  chief.  He  is  a  bold  man,  they  say;  only, 
he  has  a  habit  of  too  giddily  undertaking  certain  enter- 
prises, especially  when  women  are  concerned." 

"That  is  just  what  we  reckon  upon, "  said  the  captain,  "to 


A   NOTION   OF    FOUCHfi's.  163 

pay  off  our  score  with  him.  Let  us  get  hold  of  him  for 
only  a  couple  of  hours,  and  we  will  put  a  little  lead  into 
his  skull.  If  he  met  us,  the  gentleman  from  Coblentz 
would  do  the  same  by  us,  and  send  us  to  the  dark  place, 
and  so  one  good  turn  deserves  another." 

"Oh!  "  said  the  emigrant,  "there  is  nothing  to  fear. 
Your  soldiers  will  never  get  as  far  as  the  Pilgrim — they 
are  too  weary — and,  if  you  please,  they  can  rest  but  a 
step  from  here.  My  mother  alights  at  the  Vivetiere, 
and  there  is  the  road  to  it  some  gunshots  off.  These  two 
ladies  will  be  glad  to  rest;  they  must  be  tired  after  com- 
ing without  a  halt  from  Alenfon  here.  And  since  mad- 
emoiselle," said  he,  turning  with  forced  politeness  towards 
his  mistress,  "has  been  so  generous  as  to  impart  to  our 
journey  at  once  safety  and  enjoyment,  she  will  perhaps 
condescend  to  accept  an  invitation  to  sup  with  my 
mother?  What  is  more,  captain,  "  he  added,  addressing 
Merle,  "the  times  are  not  so  bad  but  that  a  hogshead  of 
cider  may  turn  up  at  the  Vivetiere  for  your  men  to  tap. 
The  Gars  can  hardly  have  made  a  clean  sweep ;  at  least, 
my  mother  thinks  so — 

"Your  mother?"  interrupted  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  iron- 
ically catching  him  up,  and  making  no  reply  to  the 
unusual  invitation  which  was  made  to  her. 

"Has  the  evening  made  my  age  incredible  to  you, 
mademoiselle?"  answered  Madame  du  Gua.  "I  was 
unfortunate  enough  to  be  married  very  young ;  my  son 
was  born  when  I  was  fifteen — 

"Surely  you  mistake,  madame;  do  you  not  mean 
thirty?  " 

Madame  du  Gua  grew  pale,  as  she  had  to  swallow  this 
insult;  she  would  have  given  much  for  vengeance,  but 
found  herself  obliged  to  smile,  for  she  was  anxious  at 
any  price,  even  that  of  suffering  the  most  biting  epi- 


164  THE    CHOUANS. 

grams,  to  find  out  what  the  girl's  real  intentions  were,  and 
so  she  pretended  not  to  have  understood. 

"The  Chouans  have  never  had  a  mere  cruel  leader  than 
the  Gars,  if  we  are  to  believe  the  reports  about  him," 
said  she,  addressing  Francine  and  her  mistress  at  the 
same  time. 

"Oh!  I  do  not  think  him  cruel,"  answered  Mile,  de 
Verneuil;  "but  he  knows  how  to  tell  falsehoods,  and 
seems  to  me  Very  credulous.  Now,  a  partisan  chief  should 
be  no  one's  dupe. " 

"You  know  him,  then?"  asked  the  young  emigrant, 
coldly. 

"No,"  she  replied,  with  a  disdainful  glance  at  him;  "I 
thought  I  knew  him — 

"Oh!  mademoiselle,  he  is  certainly  a  keen  hand,"  said 
the  captain,  shaking  his  head,  and  giving  to  the  word  he 
used  (/;/<?////),  by  an  expressive  gesture,  the  special  shade 
of  meaning  which  it  then  had  and  has  now  lost.  "These  old 
stocks  sometimes  throw  off  vigorous  suckers.  He  comes 
from  a  country  where  the  ci-derants  are,  they  say,  not 
exactly  in  clover;  and  men,  you  see,  are  like  medlars — 
they  ripen  on  the  straw.  If  the  fellow  keeps  his  wits 
about  him,  he  may  give  us  a  long  dance.  He  has  found 
out  the  way  to  meet  our  free  companies  with  light  corm 
panies,  and  to  neutralize  all  the  Government's  attempts. 
If  \ve  burn  a  Royalist  village,  he  burns  two  belonging  to 
Republicans.  He  is  carrying  on  operations  over  an  im- 
mense area;  and  thus  obliges  us  to  employ  a  great  num- 
ber of  troops  at  a  moment  when  we  have  none  to  spare. 
Oh!  he  knows  his  business." 

"He  is  the  assassin  of  his  country!  "  said  Gerard,  inter- 
rupting the  captain  with  a  deep  voice. 

"But,"  said  the  young  noble,  "if  his  death  will  deliver 
the  country,  shoot  him  as  soon  as  you  can." 


A    NOTION    OF    FOUCHfi'S.  165 

Then  he  plunged  his  glance  into  Mile,  de  Verneuil's 
soul,  and  there  passed  between  them  one  of  those  scenes 
without  words  whose  dramatic  vivacity  and  intangible 
finesse  speech  can  very  imperfectly  render.  Danger 
makes  men  interesting,  and  when  it  is  a  question  of  life 
and  death,  the  vilest  criminal  always  excites  a  little  pity. 
Therefore,  though  Mile,  de  Verneuil  was  now  confident 
that  her  scornful  lover  was  this  redoubted  chief,  she 
would  not  ascertain  the  fact  at  the  moment  by  procuring 
his  execution.  She  had  another  curiosity  to  satisfy,  and 
preferring  to  make  her  passion  the  standard  of  her  faith 
or  doubt,  began ,  a  game  of  hazard  with  danger.  Her 
glance,  steeped  in  treacherous  scorn,  triumphantly  pointed 
out  the  soldiers  to  the  young  chief,  and,  while  holding  up 
the  image  of  his  peril  before  him,  she  took  pleasure  in 
impressing  on  him  the  painful  thought  that  his  life 
depended  on  a  word,  and  that  her  lips  were  on  the  point 
of  opening  to  pronounce  it.  Like  an  Indian  savage,  she 
seemed  to  put  the  very  lineaments  of  her  enemy  to  the 
question  as  he  was  bound  to  the  stake,  and  shook  her 
tomahawk  delicately,  as  though  relishing  a  vengeance 
innocent  in  effect,  and  punishing  like  a  mistress  who  still 
loves. 

"Had  I  a  son  like  yours,"  she  said  to  the  strange  lady, 
who  was  in  evident  alarm,  "I  should  begin  to  wear  mourn- 
ing for  him  on  the  day  when  I  exposed  him  to  danger." 

She  received  no  answer,  and  though  she  turned  her 
head  a  score  of  times,  first  towards  the  officers,  and  then 
sharply  back  towards  Madame  du  Gua,  she  could  not 
catch  between  her  and  the  Gars  any  secret  signal  which 
assured  her  of  a  correspondence  which  she  at  once  sus- 
pected and  wished  not  to  suspect — so  pleasant  is  it  to  a 
woman  to  remain  undecided  in  a  life  and  death  struggle 
when  the  word  of  decision  is  hers.  The  young  general 


1 66  THE    CHOUANS. 

wore  the  calmest  of  smiles,  and  endured  without  flinch- 
ing the  torture  to  which  Mile,  de  Verneuil  put  him.  His 
attitude,  and  the  expression  of  his  features,  spoke  a  man 
careless  of  the  danger  to  which  he  had  knowingly 
exposed  himself,  and  now  and  then  he  seemed  to  say: 
"Here  is  an  opportunity  of  avenging  your  wounded  vanity. 
Seize  it!  I  should  be  in  despair  at  having  to  relinquish 
my  contempt  for  you."  Mile,  de  Verneuil  on  her  side 
scrutinized  the  chief  from  the  height  of  her  vantage  with, 
in  appearance,  a  mixture  of  insolence  and  dignity — in 
appearance  only,  for  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart  she 
admired  his  cool  intrepidity.  Delighted  at  discovering 
that  her  lover  bore  an  ancient  name  (for  privilege  of  this 
kind  pleases  all  women),  she  felt  an  added  pleasure  at 
meeting  him  in  a  situation  where,  defending  a  cause 
ennobled  by  misfortune,  he  was  wrestling  with  all  the 
might  of  a  strong  soul  against  the  Republic  which  had  so 
often  prevailed,  and  at  seeing  him  grappling  with  danger 
and  showing  the  prowess  which  has  such  power  over 
women's  hearts.  So  she  tried  him  afresh  a  score  of 
times,  following  perhaps  the  instinct  which  leads  a  woman 
to  play  with  her  victim  as  a  cat  plays  with  the  captured 
mouse. 

"On  what  legal  authority  do  you  doom  the  Chouans  to 
death?"  asked  she  of  Merle. 

"Why,  on  that  of  the  law  of  the  i4th  of  last  Fructidor, 
which  outlaws  the  revolted  departments  and  establishes 
courts-martial  in  them,"  replied  the  Republican. 

"What  is  the  immediate  reason  which  gives  me  the 
honor  of  your  attention?"  said  she  to  the  young  chief,  who 
was  examining  her  carefully. 

"It  is  a  feeling  which  a  gentleman  cannot  express  to 
any  woman,  whosoever  she  be,"  answered  the  Marquis  of 
Montauran,  in  a  low  voice,  stooping  towards  her.  "It  was 


A   NOTION   OF    FOUCHfi'S.  167 

x. 

worth  while,"  added  fie  aloud,  "to  live  at  this  time,  in 
order  to  see  girls*  playing  the  executioner,  and  outvying 
him  in  their  axe-play." 

She  gazed  at  Montauran ;  then,  delighted  -*.t  receiving 
a  public  insult  from  the  man  at  the  moment  when  his  life 
was  in  her  hands,  she  said  in  his  ear,  with  a  laugh  of 
gentle  mockery,  "Your  head  is  not  good  enough.  No 
executioner  would  care  for  it,  and  I  will  keep  it  for 
myself. " 

The  astonished  marquis  stared  for  some  time  at  this 
strange  girl,  whose  love  was  still  the  lord  of  all,  even  of 
the  most  stinging  insults,  and  who  took  her  vengeance 
by  pardoning  an  offense  which  women  never  forgive. 
His  eyes  lost  something  of  their  cold  severity,  and  a 
touch  of  melancholy  suffused  his  features.  His  passion 
was  already  stronger  than  he  himself  knew.  Mile,  de 
Verneuil,  contented  with  this  pledge,  slight  as  it  was, 
of  the  reconciliation  she  had  sought,  gave  the  chief  a 
tender  look,  threw  at  him  a  smile  which  was  very  like  a 
kiss,  and  then  lay  back  in  the  carriage,  unwilling  to  play 
any  more  tricks  with  the  future  of  this  comedy  of  hap- 
piness, and  thinking  that  she  had  knitted  his  bonds 
afresh  by  the  smile.  She  was  so  beautiful !  She  was  so 
cunning  in  making  the  course  of  love  run  smooth!  She 
was  so  accustomed  to  take  everything  in  sport,  to  walk 
as  chance  chose !  She  was  so  fond  of  the  unforeseen 
and  the  storms  of  life! 

In  accordance  with  the  marquis'  orders,  the  carriage 
shortly  after  left  the  highway,  and  made  for  the  Vive- 


*  There  is  no  word  in  which  French  has  a  more  unfair  advantage  over  its  trans- 
lators than  the  double  sense  of  fille,  which  can  be  used  indiflerently  in  the  same 
breath  as  simply  "girl,"  and  as  conveying  a  gross  insult.  It  may  not  be  an  enviable 
privilege,  but  it  exists.  The  somewhat  similar  play  on  mauvaise  tete  'below'  is  less 
idiomatic. —  Translator's  Note. 


l68  THE    CHOUANS. 

tiere  along  a  hollow  lane  shut  in  oy  high  slopes  planted 
with  apple  trees,  which  turned  it  into  a  ditch  rather  than 
a  road.  The  travelers  left  the  Blues  behind  them  to 
make  their  slow  way  to  the  manor-house,  whose  gray 
roofs  appeared  and  disappeared  by  turns  between  the 
trees  of  the  lane,  where  not  a  few  soldiers  had  to  fall 
out  to  wrench  their  shoes  from  the  tenacious  clay. 

"This    looks  very   much   like    the  road    to    Paradise! " 
cried  Beau-Pied. 

Thanks  to  the  postilion,  who  knew  his  way,  no  long  time 
passed  before  Mile,  de  Verneuil  saw  the  Chateau  de  la 
Vivetiere.  The  house,  perched  on  a  kind  of  promontory, 
was  defended  and  surrounded  by  two  deep  ponds,  which 
left  no  way  of  access  but  by  following  a  narrow  causeway. 
The  part  of  the  peninsula  on  which  the  buildings  and  the 
gardens  lay  was  further  protected  for  a  certain  distance  be- 
hind the  chateau  by  a  wide  moat,  receiving  the  overflow  of 
the  ponds  with  which  it  communicated.  It  was  thus  in  fact 
an  almost  impregnable  island,  and  an  invaluable  refuge 
for  any  leader,  since  he  could  not  be  surprised  except  by 
treachery.  As  she  heard  the  rusty  hinges  of  the  gate 
creak,  and  passed  under  the  pointed  arch  of  the  gateway, 
which  had  been  in  ruin  since  the  late  war,  Mile,  de  Ver 
neuil  put  her  head  out,  and  the  sinister  colors  of  the  pict- 
ure which  met  her  eyes  almost  effaced  the  thoughts  of 
love  and  of  coquetry  with  which  she  had  been  lulling  her- 
self. The  carriage  entered  a  large  court-yard,  almost 
square  in  shape,  and  inclosed  by  the  steep  banks  of  the 
ponds.  These  wild  embankments,  bathed  by  waters  cov- 
ered with  huge  green  patches,  were  unadorned  save  by 
leafless  trees  of  aquatic  species,  whose  stunted  trunks  and 
huge  tufted  heads,  rising  above  rushes  and  brushwood, 
resembled  grotesque  statues.  These  uncomely  hedges 
seemed  endowed  with  life  and  speech  as  the  frogs  left 


A   NOTION  OF   FOUCHfc'S.  l5g 

them  croaking,  and  the  water-hens,  awaked  by  the  noise 
of  the  coach,  fluttered  flapping  over  the  surface  of  the 
ponds.  The  court-yard,  surrounded  by  tall,  withered 
grass,  by  ajoncs,  by  dwarf  and  climbing  shrubs,  was  des- 
titute of  all  appearance  of  neatness  or  splendor.  The 
chateau  itself  appeared  to  have  been  long  deserted;  the 
roofs  seemed  crumbling  under  their  weight  of  vegetation; 
the  walls,  though  built  of  the  solid  schistous  stone  which 
the  soil  supplies  in  abundance,  were  full  of  cracks  to 
which  the  ivy  clung.  Two  wings,  connected  at  right 
angles  by  a  lofty  tower,  and  facing  the  pond,  made  up 
the  whole  chateau,  whose  doors  and  blinds  hanging 
rotten,  whose  rusty  balustrades  and  shattered  windows 
seemed  likely  to  fall  at  the  first  breath  of  tempest.  The 
night  breeze  whistled  through  the  ruins,  to  which  the 
moon  with  its  uncertain  light  lent  the  character  and  sem- 
blance of  a  huge  spectre.  The  colors  of  this  blue  and 
gray  granite,  contrasted  with  the  black  and  yellow  schist, 
must  have  been  seen  in  order  to  recognize  the  truth  of 
the  image  which  this  dark  and  empty  carcass  suggested. 
Its  stones  wrenched  asunder,  its  unglazed  casements,  its 
crenelated  tow&r,  its  roofs  open  to  the  sky,  gave  it  exactly 
the  air  of  a  skeleton;  and  the  very  birds  which  took  to 
flight  hooting  gave  an  additional  stroke  to  this  vague 
resemblance.  Some  lofty  fir  trees,  planted  behind  the 
house,  waved  their  dark  foliage  above  the  roof,  and  some 
yews,  originally  trained  to  give  ornament  to  the  corners, 
now  framed  it  with  melancholy  drapery-like  funeral  palls. 
Lastly,  the  shape  of  the  doors,  the  rude  style  of  the  orna- 
mentation, the  lack  of  uniformity  in  the  buildings,  were 
all  characteristic  of  one  of  those  feudal  manor-houses 
whereon  Brittany  prides  herself;  and  not  without  rea- 
son, perhaps,  inasmuch  as  they  enrich  this  Gaelic  coun- 
try with  a  sort  of  history  in  monuments  of  the  shadowy 


I7O  THE  CHOUANS. 

times  preceding  the  general  establishment  of  the  mon- 
archy. Mile,  de  Verneuil,  in  whose  fancy  the  word 
"chateau"  always  took  the  shape  of  a  conventional  type, 
was  struck  by  the  funereal  aspect  of  the  picture,  jumped 
lightly  from  the  coach  and  stood  alone,  gazing  full  of 
alarm,  and  wondering  what  she  had  better  do.  Francine 
heard  Madame  du  Gua  give  a  sigh  of  joy  at  finding  herself 
out  of  reach  of  the  Blues,  and  an  involuntary  cry  escaped 
her  when  the  gate  was  shut  and  she  found  herself  caged 
in  this  kind  of  natural  fortress.  Montauran  had  darted 
quickly  to  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  guessing  the  thoughts  that 
occupied  her. 

"This  chateau,"  said  he,  with  a  touch  of  sadness,  "has 
been  shattered  by  war,  as  the  projects  I  built  for  our 
happiness  have  been  shattered  by  you." 

"How  so?"  she  asked,  in  deep  surprise. 

"Are  you  'a.  woman,  young,  beautiful,  noble,  and 
witty?'  "  he  said,  with  a  tone  of  irony,  repeating  to  her 
the  words  which  she  had  said  to  him  so  ooquettishly  in 
their  conversation  on  the  road. 

"Who  has  told  you  the  contrary?" 

"Some  trustworthy  friends,  who  take  an  interest  in  my 
safety  and  are  watching  to  counterplot  treachery." 

"Treachery! "  she  said,  in  a  sarcastic  tone.  "Are 
Alenfon  and  Hulot  so  far  off?  You  seem  to  lack  mem- 
ory, an  awkward  defect  for  a  partisan  chief.  But  from 
the  moment  when  friends, "  she  added,  with  studied  inso- 
lence, "reign  in  your  heart  with  such  omnipotence — be 
content  with  your  friends.  There  is  notuhig  compara- 
ble to  the  pleasures  of  friendship.  Farewell!  I  will  not 
set  foot  within  these  walls,  nor  shall  the  soldiers  of  the 
Republic." 

She  darted  towards  the  gate  with  an  impulse  of  scorn 
and  wounded  pride,  but  her  action  disclosed  a  nobility 


A   NOTION    OF    FOUCHfi'S.  ijl 

of  feeling  and  a  despair  which  entirely  changed  the  ideas 
of  the  marquis,  who  felt  the  pain  of  renouncing  his 
desires  too  much  not  to  be  imprudent  and  credulous. 
He  too  was  already  in  love;  and  neither  of  the  lovers 
had  any  desire  to  prolong  their  quarrel. 

"Add  one  word  and  I  will  believe  you,"  he  said  in  a 
beseeching  tone. 

"One  word?"  she  said  ironically,  and  with  clinched 
lips.  "One  word?  Will  not  even  one  gesture  do?" 

"Scold  me  at  least,"  said  he,  trying  to  seize  a  hand 
which  she  drew  away,  "if  indeed  you  dare  to  sulk  with 
a  rebel  chief  who  is  now  as  mistrustful  and  sombre  as  just 
now  he  was  confiding  and  gay." 

Marie  looked  at  the  marquis  without  anger,  and  he 
added: 

"You  have  my  secret,  and  I  have  not  yours." 

But  at  these  words  her  brow  of  alabaster  seemed  to 
darken.  Marie  cast  an  angry  look  at  the  chief,  and 
answered,  "My  secret?  Never!" 

In  love,  every  word  and  every  look  has  its  momentary 
eloquence,  but  on  this  occasion  Mile,  de  Verneuil  gave 
no  precise  indication  of  her  meaning,  and  clever  as 
Montauran  was,  the  riddle  of  the  exclamation  remained 
unsolved  for  him,  though  her  voice  had  betrayed  some 
extraordinary  emotion  which  must  have  strongly  tempted 
his  curiosity. 

"You  have,"  he  said,  "an  agreeable  manner  of  dispelling 
suspicion." 

"Do  you  still  entertain  any?"  she  said,  looking  him  up 
and  down  as  much  as  to  say,  "Have  you  any  rights  over 
me?  " 

"Mademoiselle,"  answered  the  young  man,  with  an  air 
at  once  humble  and  firm,  "the  power  which  you  exercise 
over  the  Republican  troops,  this  escort — 


172  THE    CHOUANS. 

"Ah!  you  remind  me.  Shall  I  and  my  escort,"  asked 
she,  with  a  touch  of  irony,  "will  ycur  protectors,  I  should 
say,  be  in  safety  here?" 

"Yes,  on  the  faith  of  a  gentleman.  Whoever  you  are, 
you  and  yours  have  nothing  to  fear  from  me." 

This  pledge  was  given  with  an  air  of  such  sincerity 
and  generosity  that  Mile,  de  Verneuil  could  not  but  feel 
fully  reassured  as  to  the  fate  of  the  Republicans.  She 
was  about  to  speak,  when  the  arrival  of  Madame  du  Gua 
silenced  her.  This  lady  had  been  able  either  to  hear 
or  to  guess  part  of  the  conversation  between  the  lovers, 
and  was  not  a  little  anxious  at  finding  them  in  a  posture 
which  did  not  display  the  least  unkindly  feeling.  When 
he  saw  her,  the  marquis  offered  his  hand  to  Mile,  de 
Verneuil,  and  started  briskly  towards  the  house  as  if  to 
rid  himself  of  an  unwelcome  companion. 

"I  am  in  their  way,"  said  the  strange  lady,  remaining 
motionless  where  she  stood,  and  gazing  at  the  two  recon- 
ciled lovers  as  they  made  their  way  slowly  towards  the 
entrance-stairs,  where  they  halted  to  talk  as  soon  as  they 
had  put  a  certain  distance  between  her  and  themselves. 
"Yes!  yes!  I  am  in  their  way,"  she  went  on,  speaking  to 
herself;  "but  in  a  little  time  the  creature  shall  be  no 
more  in  mine!  By  heaven!  the  pond  shall  be  her  grave. 
Shall  I  not  keep  your  'faith  of  a  gentleman'  for  you? 
Once  under  water,  what  has  anyone  to  fear?  Will  she 
not  be  safe  there?" 

She  was  gazing  steadily  at  the  clear  mirror  of  the  little 
lake  on  the  right  when  suddenly  she  heard  the  brambles 
on  the  bank  rustle,  and  saw  by  moonlight  the  face  of 
Marche-a-Terre  rising  behind  the  knotty  trunk  of  an  old 
willow.  Only  those  who  knew  the  Chouan  could  have 
made  him  out  in  the  midst  of  this  crowd  of  pollarded 
stumps,  among  which  his  own  form  easily  confounded 


A  NOTION    OF    FOUCHF/S. 


173 


itself.  Madame  du  Gua  first  threw  a  watchful  look 
around  her.  She  saw  the  postilion  leading  his  horses  off 
to  a  stable  in  the  wing  of  the  chateau  which  faced  the 
bank  where  Marche-a-Terre  was  hidden;  while  Francine 
was  making  her  ,way  towards  the  Jwo  lovers,  who  at 
the  moment  had  forgotten  everything  on  earth.  Then  the 
strange  lady  stepped  forward  with  her  finger  on  her  lips 
to  insist  on  complete  silence;  after  which  the  Chouan 
understood  rather  than  heard  the  following  words: 

"How  many  of  you  are  here?" 

"Eighty-seven. " 

"They  are  only  sixty-five;   I  counted  them." 

"Good!"  said  the  savage,  with  ferocious  satisfaction. 

Then  the  Chouan,  who  kept  an  eye  on  Francine's  least 
movement,  dived  behind  the  willow  bark  as  he  saw  her 
turn  back  to  look  for  the  female  foe  of  whom  she  was 
instinctively  watchful. 

Seven  or  eight  persons,  attracted  by  the  noise  of  the 
carriage-wheels,  showed  themselves  on  the  top  of  the 
front  stairway,  and  cried,  ""Tis  the  Gars!  'Tis  he!  Here 
he  is!"  At  this  cry  others  ran  up,  and  their  presence 
disturbed  the  lovers'  talk.  The  Marquis  of  Montauran 
advanced  hastily  towards  these  gentlemen,  and  bade  them 
be  silent  with  a  commanding  gesture,  pointing  out  to 
them  the  head  of  the  avenue  where  the  Republican 
troops  were  debouching.  At  sight  of  the  well-known 
blue  uniforms  faced  with  red  and  the  flashing  bayonets, 
the  astounded  conspirators  cried: 

"Have  you  come  to  betray  us?" 

"If  I  had  I  should  hardly  warn  you  of  the  danger," 
answered  the  marquis,  smiling  bitterly.  "These  Blues," 
he  continued,  after  a  pause,  "are  the  escort  of  this  young 
lady,  whose  generosity  has  miraculously  delivered  us 
from  the  danger  to  which  we  had  nearly  fallen  victims 


174  THE    CHOUANS, 

in  an  inn  at  Alengon.  We  will  tell  you  the  story. 
Mademoiselle  and  her  escort  are  here  on  my  parole,  and 
must  be  received  as  friends." 

Madame  du  Gua  and  Francine  having  arrived  at  the 
steps,  the  marquis  gajlantly  presented  his  hand  to  Mile,  de 
Verneuil.  The  group  of  gentlemen  fell  back  into  two  rows, 
in  order  to  give  them  passage,  and  all  strove  to  distinguish 
the  stranger's  features;  for  Madame  du  Gua  had  already 
heightened  their  curiosity  by  making  some  private  signals. 
Mile,  de  Verneuil  beheld  in  the  first  apartment  a  large 
table  handsomely  laid  for  some  score  of  guests.  This 
dining-room  communicated  with  a  large  saloon  in  which 
the  company  was  shortly  collected.  Both  chambers 
were  in  harmony  with  the  spectacle  of  ruin  which  the 
exterior  of  the  chateau  presented.  The  wainscot,  wrought 
in  polished  walnut,  but  of  rough,  coarse,  ill-finished 
workmanship  in  very  high  relief,  was  wrenched  asunder 
and  seemed  ready  to  fall.  Its  dark  hue  added  yet  more 
to  the  melancholy  aspect  of  rooms  without  curtains  or 
mirrors,  where  a  few  pieces  of  ancient  and  ramshackle 
furniture  matched  with  the  general  effect  of  dilapidation. 
Marie  saw  maps  and  plans  lying  unrolled  on  a  large  table, 
and  in  the  corners  of  the  room  piles  of  swords  and  rifles. 
The  whole  bore  witness  to  an  important  conference  between 
the  Chouan  and  Vend£an  chiefs.  The  marquis  led  Mile, 
de  Verneuil  to  a  vast  worm-eaten  arm-chair  which  stood 
by  the  fire-place,  and  Francine  placed  herself  behind  her 
mistress,  leaning  on  the  back  of  the  venerable  piece  of 
furniture. 

"You  will  excuse  me  for  a  moment,  that  I  may  do  my 
duty  as  host?"  said  the  marquis,  as  he  left  the  couple 
and  mixed  in  the  groups  which  his  guests  formed. 

Francine  saw  all  the  chiefs,  in  consequence  of  a  word 
from  Montauran,  hastily  hiding  their  maps,  their  arms, 


A    NOTION    OF    FOUCHfi's.  175 

and  everything  that  could  excite  the  suspicions  of  the 
Republican  officers;  while  some  laid  aside  broad  belts 
which  contained  pistols  and  hangers.  The  marquis  recom- 
mended the  greatest  possible  discretion,  and  went  out  with 
apologies  for  the  necessity  of  looking  after  the  reception  of 
the  troublesome  guests  that  chance  was  giving  him.  Mile, 
de  Verneuil,  who  had  put  her  feet  to  the  fire,  endeavor- 
ing to  warm  them,  allowed  Montauran  to  leave  without 
turning  her  head,  and  thus  disappointed  the  expectation 
of  the  company,  who  were  all  anxious  to  see  her.  The 
gentlemen  gathered  round  the  unknown  lady,  and  while 
she  carried  on  with  them  a  conversation  sotto  voce,  there 
was  not  one  who  did  not  turn  round  more  than  once  to 
examine  the  two  strangers. 

"You  know  Montauran,"  she  said,  "he  fell  in  love  with 
the  girl  at  first  sight;  and  you  can  quite  understand  that 
the  best  advice  sounded  suspicious  to  him  when  it  came 
from  my  mouth.  Our  friends  at  Paris,  and  Messieurs  de 
Valois  and  d'Esgrignon  of  Alen9on  as  well,  have  all 
warned  him  of  the  snare  that  is  being  laid  for  him  by 
throwing  some  baggage  at  his  head;  and  yet  he  takes  up 
with  the  first  he  meets — a  girl  who,  according  to  my 
information,  has  stolen  a  great  name  in  order  to  disgrace 
it,"  and  so  forth. 

This  lady,  in  whom  the  reader  must  have  already 
recognized  the  woman  who  decided  the  Chouans  on 
attacking  the  turgotine,  shall  keep  henceforward  in  our 
history  the  appellation  which  helped  her  to  escape  the 
dangers  of  her  journey  by  Alencon.  The  publication  of 
her  real  name  could  only  offend  a  distinguished  family, 
already  deeply  grieved  at  the  misconduct  of  a  daughter 
whose  fate  has  moreover  been  the  subject  of  another 
drama  than  this.  But  the  attitude  of  inquisitiveness 
which  the  company  took  soon  became  impertinent  and 


176  THE    CHOUANS. 

almost  hostile.  Some  harsh  exclamations  reached  Fran- 
cine's  ear,  and  she,  after  whispering  to  her  mistress,  took 
refuge  in  the  embrasure  of  a  window.  Marie  herself  rose, 
turned  towards  the  insulting  group,  and  cast  on  them 
dignified  and  even  scornful  glances.  Her  beauty,  her 
elegant  manners,  and  her  haughtiness,  suddenly  changed 
the  disposition  of  her  enemies,  and  gained  her  a  flatter- 
ing murmur  of  admiration,  which  seemed  to  escape  them 
against  their  will.  Two  or  three  men,  whose  exterior 
showed  those  habits  of  politeness  and  gallantry  which  are 
learned  in  the  exalted  sphere  of  a  court,  drew  near  Marie 
with  a  good  grace.  But  the  modesty  of  her  demeanor 
inspired  them  with  respect;  no  one  dared  to  address  her, 
and  she  was  so  far  from  occupying  the  position  of 
accused,  that  she  seemed  to  be  their  judge.  Nor  had 
these  chiefs  of  a  war  undertaken  for  God  and  the  King 
much  resemblance  to  the  fancy  portraits  of  them  which 
she  had  amused  herself  with  drawing.  The  struggle, 
great  as  it  really  was,  shrunk  and  assumed  mean  propor- 
tions in  her  eyes  when  she  saw  before  her,  with  the 
exception  of  two  or  three  vigorous  faces,  mere  country 
squires  destitute  of  character  and  vivacity.  Marie 
dropped  suddenly  from  poetry  to  plain  prose.  The 
countenances  about  her  gave  a  first  impression  rather  of 
a  desire  to  intrigue  than  of  the  love  of  glory.  It  was  self- 
interest  that  had  really  called  these  gentlemen  to  arms; 
and  if  they  became  heroic  on  actual  service,  here  they 
showed  themselves  in  their  natural  colors.  The  loss  of 
her  illusions  made  Mile,  de  Verneuil  unjust,  and  pre- 
vented her  from  recognizing  the  sincere  devotion  which 
made  some  of  these  men  so  remarkable.  Yet  most  of 
them  certainly  showed  a  want  of  distinction  in  manner, 
and  the  few  characteristic  heads  which  were  notable 
among  them  were  robbed  of  grandeur  by  the  formal  eti- 


A  NOTION   OF    FOUCHfi's. 


177, 


quette  of  aristocracy.  Even  though  Marie  was  liberal 
enough'  to  grant  shrewdness  and  acuteness  of  mind  to 
these  persons,  she  found  in  them  a  complete  lack  of  the 
magnificent  simplicity  to  which  she  was  accustomed 
in  the  successful  men  of  the  Republic.  This  noc- 
turnal assembly,  held  in  the  ruined  fortalice,  under  gro- 
tesque architectural  devices  which  suited  the  faces  well 
enough,  made  her  smile  as  she  chose  to  see  in  it  a  pict- 
ure symbolizing  the  monarchy.  Soon  there  came  to  her 
the  delightful  thought  that  at  any  rate  the  marquis 
played  the  most  important  part  among  these  folk,  whose 
only  merit  in  her  eyes  was  their  devotion  to  a  lost 
cause.  She  sketched  in  fancy  the  form  of  her  lover 
among  the  crowd,  pleased  herself  with  setting  him  off 
against  them,  and  saw  in  their  thin  and  meagre  person- 
alities nothing  but  tools  of  his  great  designs.  At  this 
moment  the  marquis'  steps  rang  in  the  neighboring  room; 
the  conspirators  suddenly  melted  into  separate  groups, 
and  the  whispering  ceased.  Like  school-boys  who  had 
been  planning  some  trick  during  their  master's  absence, 
they  eagerly  feigned  good  behavior  and  silence.  Mon- 
tauran  entered,  and  Marie  had  the  happiness  of  admiring 
him  among  these  men  of  whom  he  was  the  youngest, 
the  handsomest,  the  first.  As  a  king  does  amidst  hfs 
courtiers,  he  went  from  group  to  group,  distributing 
slight  nods,  hand-shakes,  glances,  words  of  intelligence 
or  reproach,  playing  his  part  of  party  chief  with  a  grace 
and  coolness  difficult  to  anticipate  in  a  young  man  whom 
she  had  at  first  taken  for  a  mere  giddy-pate.  The  mar- 
quis' presence  put  an  end  to  the  inquisitiveness  which 
had  been  busy  with  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  but  Madame  du 
Gua's  ill-nature  soon  produced  its  effect.  The  Baron 
du  Guenic  (surnamed  L' Intimf),  who,  among  all  these 
men  assembled  by  matters  of  such  grave  interest, 
12 


178  THE    CHOUANS. 

seemed  alone  entitled  by  his  name  and  rank  to  use 
familiarity  with  Montauran,  took  his  arm,  and  led  him 
aside. 

"Listen,  my  dear  marquis,"  said  he;  "we  are  all  in 
pain  at  seeing  you  about  to  commit  an  egregious  piece  of 
folly." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"Do  you  know  where  this  girl  comes  from,  who  she 
really  is,  and  what  her  designs  on  you  are?" 

"My  dear  L'Intim£,  be  it  said  between  ourselves,  my 
fancy  will  have  passed  by  to-morrow  morning." 

"Granted;  but  how  if  the  baggage  gives  you  up  before 
daybreak?" 

"I  will  answer  you  when  you  tell  me  why  she  has  not 
done  so  already,"  replied  Montauran,  assuming  in  jest 
an  air  of  coxcombry. 

"Why,  if  she  likes  you,  she  probably  would  not  care 
to  betray  you  till  her  fancy,  too,  has  'passed.'  ' 

"My  dear  fellow,  do  look  at  that  charming  girl. 
Observe  her  ways,  and  then  say,  if  you  dare,  that  she  is 
not  a  lady.  If  she  cast  favoring  eyes  on  you,  would  you 
not  in  your  inmost  soul  feel  some  respect  for  her?  A 
dame  whom  we  know  has  prejudiced  you  against  her. 
But  after  the  conversation  we  have  had,  if  I  found  her 
to  l)e  one  of  the  wantons  our  friends  speak  of,  I  would 
kill  her." 

"Do  you  think,"  said  Madame  du  Gua,  breaking  into 
the  talk,  "that  Fouche  is  fool  enough  to  pick  up  the 
<^irl  he  sends  against  you  at  a  street-corner?  He  has 
proportioned  her  charms  to  your  ability.  But  if  you  are 
blind,  your  friends  must  keep  their  eyes  open  to  watch 
over  you." 

"Madame,"  answered  the  Gars,  darting  an  angry  glance 
at  her,  "take  care  not  to  attempt  anything  against  this 


A   NOTION    OF    FOUCHfi'S.  179 

young  person,  or  against  her  escort,  otherwise  nothing 
shall  save  you  from  my  vengeance.  I  will  have  the 
young  lady  treated  with  the  greatest  respect,  and  as  one 
who  belongs  to  me.  We  have,  I  believe,  some  co/inec- 
tion  with  the  Verneuils. " 

The  opposition  with  which  the  marquis  met  had 
the  usual  effect  of  similar  obstacles  on  young  people. 
Although  he  had  in  appearance  treated  Mile,  de  Ver- 
neuil  very  cavalierly,  and  had  made  believe  that  his  pas- 
sion for  her  was  a  mere  caprice,  he  had  just,  in  an 
impulse  of  pride,  taken  a  long  step  forward.  After 
making  the  lady's  cause  his,  he  found  his  honor  con- 
cerned in  her  being  respectfully  treated;  so  he  went 
from  group  to  group  giving  assurances,  after  the  fashion 
of  a  man  dangerous  to  cross,  that  the  stranger  was  really 
Mile,  de  Verneuil;  and  forthwith  all  murmurs  were 
silenced.  When  Montauran  had  reestablished  a  kind  of 
peace  in  the  saloon  and  had  satisfied  all  exigencies,  he 
drew  near  his  mistress  with  an  eager  air,  and  whispered 
to  her: 

"These  people  have  deprived  me  of  some  minutes  of 
happiness. " 

"I  am  glad  to  have  you  near  me,"  answered  she,  laugh- 
ing. "I  warn  you  that  I  am  curious;  so  do  not  be  too 
tired  of  my  questions.  Tell  me  first  who  is  that  good 
man  who  wears  a  green  cloth  waistcoat?" 

'  'Tis   the  well-known  Major    Brigaut,    a   man    of    the 
Marais,  comrade  of  the  late  Mercier,  called  La  Vendee." 
"And  who  is  the  fat,   red-faced  priest  with   whom  he  is 
just  now  talking  about  me?"  went  on  Mile,  de  Verneuil. 
"You  want  to  know  what  they  are  saying?" 
"Do  I  want  to  know?     Do   you  call   that  a  question?" 
"But  I  cannot  tell  you  without  insulting  you." 
"As    soon   as   you    allow    me    to    be    insulted    without 


UO  THE    CHOUANS. 

exacting  vengeance  for  the  insults  proffered  me  in  your 
house,  farewell,  marquis!  I  will  not  stay  a  moment  longer 
here;  as  it  is,  I  am  ashamed  of  deceiving  these  poor 
Republicans  who  are  so  loyal  and  confiding;"  and  she 
made  some  steps,  but  the  marquis  followed  her. 

"My  dear  Marie,  listen  to  me.  On  my  honor,  I 
silenced  their  unkind  words  before  knowing  whether 
they  are  true  words  or  false.  Nevertheless,  in  my  sit- 
uation, when  our  allies  in  the  Government  offices  at  Paris 
have  warned  me  to  mistrust  every  kind  of  woman  I  meet 
on  my  path,  telling  me  at  the  same  time  that  Fouche 
has  made  up  his  mind  to  employ  some  street-walking 
Judith  against  me,  my  best  friends  may  surely  be  par- 
doned for  thinking  that  you  are  too  beautiful  to  be  an 
honest  woman — 

And  as  he  spoke  the  marquis  plunged  his  eyes  into 
those  of  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  who  blushed,  and  could  not 
keep  back  her  tears. 

"I  deserved  this  insult,"  she  said.  "I  would  fain  see 
you  sure  that  I  am  a  worthless  creature,  and  yet  know 
myself  loved;  then  I  should  doubt  you  no  more.  For  my 
part,  I  believed  you  when  you  deceived  me,  and  you  dis- 
believe me  when  I  speak  the  truth.  Enough  of  this, 
sir,"  she  said,  frowning,  and  with  the  paleness  of 
approaching  death  on  her  face;  "adieu! " 

She  dashed  from  the  room  with  a  despairing  move- 
ment: but  the  young  marquis  said  in  her  ear,  "Marie! 
my  life  is  yours  !" 

She  stopped  and  looked  at  him.  "No!  no!"  she  said. 
"I  am  generous.  Farewell!  I  thought  not,  as  I  came 
\vith  you,  of  my  past  or  of  your  future.  I  was  mad!  " 

"What!  you  leave  me  at  the  moment  when  I  offer  you 
my  life?" 

"You  are  offering  it  in  a  moment  of  passion,  of  desire — " 


A   NOTION   OF    FOUCHF/S.  l8l 

"But  without  regret,  and  forever!  "  said  he. 

She  reentered  the  room,  and  to  hide  his  emotion  the 
marquis  continued  their  conversation:  "The  fat  man 
whose  name  you  asked  me  is  a  redoubtable  person.  He 
is  the  Abbe  Gudin,  one  of  those  Jesuits  who  are  certainly 
headstrong  enough,  and  perhaps  devoted  enough,  to 
remain  in  France  notwithstanding  the  edict  of  1763, 
which  banished  them.  He  is  a  fire-brand  of  war  in  these 
districts,  and  the  organizer  of  the  association  called 
the  Sacred  Heart.  Accustomed  to  make  religion  his 
tool,  he  persuades  the  affiliated  members  that  they  will 
come  to  life  again,  and  knows  how  to  keep  up  their 
fanaticism  by  clever  prophecies.  You  see,  one  has  to 
make  use  of  each  man's  private  interest  to  gain  a  great 
end.  In  that  lies  the  whole  secret  of  politics." 

"And  the  other,  in  a  green  old  age — the  muscular  man 
whose  face  is  so  repulsive?  There!  the  man  dressed  in 
a  tattered  lawyer's  gown." 

"Lawyer!  he  aspires  to  the  rank  of  marechal  de  camp. 
Have  you  never  heard  speak  of  Longuy?" 

"What!  'tis  he?"  said  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  affrighted. 
"You  employ  such  men  as  that?" 

"Hush!  he  might  hear  you.  Do  you  see  the  other, 
engaged  in  criminal  conversation  with  Madame  du  Gua?" 

"The  man  in  black,  who  looks  like  a  judge?" 

"He  is  one  of  our  diplomatists,  La  Billardiere,  son 
of  a  counselor  in  the  Breton  Parliament,  whose  real 
name  is  something  like  Flamet,  but  he  is  in  the  princes' 
confidence." 

"And  his  neighbor,  who  is  just  now  clutching  his  clay 
pipe,  and  who  rests  all  the  fingers  of  his  right  hand  on 
the  wainscot  like  a  clown?"  said  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  with 
a  laugh. 

"You   have   guessed   him,    by  heavens!      'Tis  a  former 


i8a 


THE    CHOUANS. 


gamekeeper  of  the  lady's  defunct  husband.  He  com- 
mands one  of  the  companies  with  which  I  meet  the 
mobile  battalions.  He  and  Marche-a-Terre  are  perhaps 


the  most  conscientious  servants  that  the  King  has  here- 
abouts. " 

"But  she  -who  is  she?" 


A  NOTION   OF   FOUCHfi'S.  183 

"She, "  continued  the  marquis,  "she  is  the  last  mistress 
that  Charette  had.  She  has  great  influence  on  all  these 
people. " 

"Has  she  remained  faithful  to  him?" 

But  the  marquis  made  no  other  answer  than  a  slight 
grimace,  expressing  doubt. 

"Do  you  think  well  of  her?" 

"Really,  you  are  very  inquisitive." 

"She  is  my  enemy,  because  she  no  longer  can  be  my 
rival,"  said  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  laughing.  "I  forgive  her 
her  past  slips;  let  her  forgive  me  mine.  And  the  officer 
with  the  moustaches?" 

"Pardon  me  if  I  do  not  name  him.  He  wants  to  get 
rid  of  the  First  Consul  by  attacking  him  arms  in  hand. 
Whether  he  succeeds  or  not,  you  will  hear  of  him  some 
day.  He  will  be  famous." 

"And  you  have  come  to  take  command  of  people  like 
that?  "  she  said,  with  horror.  "These  are  the  King's  defend- 
ers !  Where,  .then,  are  the  gentlemen,  the  great  lords?  " 

"Well,"  said  the  marquis,  somewhat  tauntingly,  "they 
are  scattered  about  all  the  courts  of  Europe.  Who  else 
is  enlisting  kings,  cabinets,  armies  in  the  service  of  the 
House  of  Bourbon,  and  urging  them  against  this  Repub- 
lic, which  threatens  all  monarchies  with  death,  and  social 
order  with  complete  destruction?" 

"Ah!  "  she  said,  with  generous  emotion,  "be  to  me 
henceforth  the  pure  source  whence  I  may  draw  such 
further  ideas  as  I  must  learn.  I  have  no  objection  to 
that.  But  allow  me  to  think  that  you  are  the  only  noble 
who  does  his  duty  by  attacking  France  with  Frenchmen, 
and  not  with  foreign  aid.  I  am  a  woman,  and  I  feel  that . 
if  a  child  of  mine  struck  me  in  anger,  I  could  pardon 
him;  but  if  he  looked  on  while  a  stranger  tore  me  to 
pieces,  I  should  regard  him  as  a  monster." 


184  THE    CHOUANS. 

"You  will  always  be  a  Republican,"  said  the  marquis, 
delightfully  intoxicated  by  the  glowing  tones  which  con- 
firmed his  hopes. 

"A  Republican?  I  am  not  that  any  more.  I  could  not 
esteem  you  if  you  were  to  submit  to  the  First  Consul," 
she  went  on;  "but  neither  would  I  see  you  at  the  head  of 
men  who  put  a  corner  of  France  to  pillage,  instead  of 
attacking  the  Republic  in  front.  For  whom  are  you 
fighting?  What  do  you  expect  from  a  king  restored  to 
the  throne  by  your  hands?  Once  upon  a  time  a  woman 
undertook  this  same  glorious  task;  and  the  king,  after 
his  deliverance,  let  her  be  burned  alive!  These  royal 
folk  are  the  anointed  of  the  Lord,  and  there  is  danger 
in  touching  consecrated  things.  Leave  God  alone  to 
place,  displace,  or  replace  them  on  their  purple  seats. 
If  you  have  weighed  the  reward  which  will  come  to  you, 
you  are  ten  times  greater  in  my  eyes  than  I  thought  you; 
and  if  so,  you  may  trample  me  under  your  feet  if  you 
like;  I  will  gladly  permit  you  to  do  so." 

"You  are  charming!  Do  not  teach  your  lessons  to 
these  gentlemen,  or  I  shall  be  left  without  soldiers." 

"Ah !  if  you  would  let  me  convert  you,  we  would  go  a 
thousand  miles  hence." 

"These  men  whom  you  seem  to  despise,"  replied  the 
marquis  in  a  graver  tone,  "will  know  how  to  die  in  the 
struggle,  and  their  faults  will  be  forgotten;  besides,  if 
my  attempts  meet  with  some  success,  will  not  the  laurels 
of  triumph  hide  all  else?" 

"You  are  the  only  man  here  who  seems  to  me  to  have 
anything  to  lose. " 

"I  am  not  the  only  one,"  said  he,  with  real  modesty; 
"there  are  two  new  Vendean  chiefs.  The  first,  whom  you 
heard  them  call  Grand-Jacques,  is  the  Comte  de  Fon- 


A   NOTION  OF    FOUCHfi's.  185 

taine;  the  other  is  La  Billardiere,  whom  I  have  pointed 
out  to  you  already." 

"And  do  you  forget  Quiberon,  where  La  Billardiere 
played  a  very  singular  part?"  said  she,  struck  by  a 
sudden  memory. 

"La  Billardiere  took  on  himself  a  great  deal  of  respon- 
sibility; believe  me,  the  service  of  princes  is  not  a  bed 
of  roses." 

"Ah  !  you  make  me  shudder, "  cried  Marie.  "Marquis!  " 
she  went  on,  in  a  tone  seemingly  indicating  a  reticence, 
the  mystery  of  which  concerned  him  personally,  "a  single 
instant  is  enough  to  destroy  an  illusion  and  to  unveil 
secrets  on  which  the  life  and  happiness  of  many  men 
depend —  She  stopped  herself,  as  if  she  feared  to  say 
too  much,  and  added:  "I  would  fain  know  that  the 
Republican  soldiers  are  safe." 

"I  will  be  prudent,"  said  he,  smiling,  to  disguise  his 
emotion;  "but  speak  to  me  no  more  of  your  soldiers. 
I  have  answered  for  them  already,  on  my  honor  as  a  gen- 
tleman. " 

"And  after  all,  what  right  have  I  to  lead  you?"  said 
she;  "be  you  always  the  master  of  us  two.  Did  I  not 
tell  you  that  it  would  put  me  to  despair  to  be  mistress 
of  a  slave?" 

"My  lord  marquis,"  said  Major  Brigaut,  respectfully 
interrupting  this  conversation,  "will  the  Blues  stay 
long  here?" 

"They  will  go  as  soon  as  they  have  rested,"  cried 
Marie. 

The  marquis,  directing  inquiring  looks  towards  the 
company,  saw  that  there  was  a  flutter  among  them,  left 
Mile,  de  Verneuil,  and  allowed  Madame  du  Gua  to  come 
and  take  his  place  by  her  side.  This  lady  wore  a  mask 
of  laughing  perfidy,  which  even  the  young  chief's  bitter 


l86  THE   CHOUANS. 

smile  did  not  disturb.  But  at  the  same  moment  Fran- 
cine  uttered  a  cry  which  she  herself  promptly  checked. 
Mile,  de  Verneuil,  astonished  at  seeing  her  faithful 
country  maid  flying  towards  the  dining-room,  turned  her 
gaze  on  Madame  du  Gua,  and  her  surprise  increased  as 
she  noted  the  pallor  which  had  spread  over  the  face  of 
her  enemy.  Full  of  curiosity  to  know  the  secret  of  this 
abrupt  departure,  she  advanced  towards  the  recess  of  the 
window,  whither  her  rival  followed  her,  with  the  object 
of  removing  the  suspicions  which  her  indiscretion  might 
have  excited,  and  smiled  at  her  with  an  indefinable  air 
of  malice,  as,  after  both  had  cast  a  glance  on  the  lake 
and  its  landscape,  they  returned  together  to  the  fire- 
place; Marie  without  having  seen  anything  to  justify 
Francine's  flight,  Madame  du  Gua  satisfied  that  her 
orders  were  obeyed. 

The  lake,  at  the  edge  of  which  Marche-a-Terre,  like  a 
spirit  conjured  up  by  the  lady,  had  appeared  in  the 
court,  ran  to  join  the  moat  surrounding  the  gardens  in  a 
series  of  misty  reaches,  sometimes  broadening  into 
ponds,  sometimes  contracted  like  canals  in  a  park.  The 
steeply  shelving  bank  which  these  clear  waters  washed 
was  but  some  fathoms  distant  from  the  window.  Now 
Francine,  who  had  been  absorbed  in  watching  the  black 
lines  sketched  by  the  Heads  of  some  old 'willows  on  the 
face  of  the  waters,  was  gazing  half  absently  at  the  regu- 
lar curves  which  the  light  breeze  gave  to  their  branches. 
Suddenly  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  saw  one  of  these 
shapes  moving  on  the  watery  mirror,  with  the  irregular 
and  willful  motion  which  shows  animal  life;  the  form 
was  vague  enough,  but  seemed  to  be  human.  Francine 
at  first  set  her  vision  down  to  the  shadowy  outlines  which 
the  moonlight  produced  through  the  branches;  but  soon 
a  second  head  showed  itself,  and  then  others  appeared  in 


A  NOTION  OF   FOUCHft'S.  187 

the  distance,  the  small  shrubs  on  the  bank  bent  and  rose 
again  sharply,  and  Francine  perceived  in  the  long  line  of 
the  hedge  a  gradual  motion  like  that  of  a  mighty  Indian 
serpent  of  fabulous  contour.  Next,  divers  points  of  light 
flashed  and  shifted  their  position  here  and  there  among 
the  brooms  and  the  tall  brambles.  Marche-a-Terre's 
beloved  redoubled  her  attention,  and  in  doing  so  she 
seemed  to  recognize  the  foremost  of  the  black  figures 
which  were  passing  along  this  animated  shore.  The 
man's  shape  was  very  indistinct,  but  the  beating  of  her 
heart  assured  her  that  it  was  really  Marche  a-Terre  whom 
she  saw.  Convinced  by  a  gesture,  and  eager  to  know 
whether  this  mysterious  movement  hid  some  treachery  or 
not,  she  darted  towards  the  court-yard,  and  when  she 
had  reached  the  middle  of  this  green  expanse,  she 
scanned  by  turns  the  two  wings  and  the  two  banks  with- 
out observing  any  trace  of  this  secret  movement  in  the 
bank  which  faced  the  uninhabited  part  of  the  building. 
She  strained  her  ear,  and  heard  a  slight  rustle  like  that 
which  the  steps  of  a  wild  beast  might  produce  in  the 
silent  woods;  she  shuddered,  but  she  did  not  tremble. 
Young  and  innocent  as  she  still  was,  curiosity  quickly 
suggested  a  trick  to  her.  She  saw  the  carriage,  ran  to 
it,  hid  herself  in  it,  and  only  raised  her  head  with  the 
caution  of  the  hare  in  whose  ears  the  echo  of  the  far-off 
hunt  resounds.  Then  she  saw  Pille-Miche  coming  out 
of  the  stable.  The  Chouan  was  accompanied  by  two 
peasants,  all  three  carrying  trusses  of  straw;  these  they 
spread  out  in  such  a  manner  as  to  make  a  long  bed  of 
litter  before  the  deserted  wing  and  parallel  to  the  bank 
with  the  dwarf  trees,  where  the  Chouans  were  moving 
with  a  silence  which  gave  evidence  of  the  preparation  of 
some  hideous  stratagem. 

"You  are  giving  them  as  much  straw  as  if   they  were 


l88  THE    CHOUANS. 

really  going  to  sleep  here.  Enough,  Pille-Miche, 
enough!  "  said  a  low,  harsh  voice,  which  Francine  knew. 

"  Will  they  not  sleep  there?"  answered  Pille-Miche, 
emitting  a  foolish  guffaw.  "But  are  you  not  afraid  that 
the  Gars  will  be  angry?"  he  added,  so  low  that  Francine 
could  not  hear  him. 

"Well,  suppose  he  is  angry,"  replied  Marche-a-Terre 
under  his  breath;  "we  shall  have  killed  the  Blues  all  the 
same.  But,"  he  went  on,  "there  is  a  carriage  which  we 
two  must  run  in." 

Pille-Miche  drew  the  coach  Dy  the  pole  and  Marche-a- 
Terre  pushed  one  of  the  wheels  so  smartly  that  Fran- 
cine  found  herself  in  the  barn,  and  on  the  point  of  being 
shut  up  there,  before  she  had  had  time  to  reflect  on  her 
position.  Pille-Miche  went  forth  to  help  in  bringing  in 
the  cask  of  cider  which  the  marquis  had  ordered  to  be 
served  out  to  the  soldiers  of  the  escort,  and  Marche-a- 
Terre  was  passing  by  the  coach  in  order  to  go  out  and 
shut  the  door,  when  he  felt  himself  stopped  by  a  hand 
which  caught  the  long  hair  of  his  goatskin.  He  met  cer- 
tain eyes  whose  sweetness  exercised  magnetic  power  over 
him,  and  he  stood  for  a  moment  as  if  bewitched.  Fran- 
cine  jumped  briskly  out  of  the  carriage,  and  said  to  him 
in  the  aggressive  tone  which  suits  a  vexed  woman  so 
admirably: 

"Pierre,  what  was  the  news  you  brought  to  that  lady 
and  her  son  on  the  highway?  What  are  they  doing  here? 
Why  are  you  hiding?  I  will  know  all!" 

At  these  words  the  Chouan's  face  took  an  expression 
which  Francine  had  never  known  him  to  wear.  The 
Breton  led  his  innocent  mistress  to  the  door-step,  and 
there  turning  her  face  towards  the  white  blaze  of  the 
moon,  he  answered,  staring  at  her  with  a  terrible  look: 

"Yes,    Francine,    I    will    tell   you,    by    my   damnation! 


A    NOTION   OF    FOUCHE'S. 


189 


but  only  when  you  have  sworn  on  these  beads,"  and  he 
drew  an  old  rosary  from  underneath  the  goatskin,  "on 
this  relic  which  you  know,"  he  went  on,  "to  answer  me 
truly  one  single  question." 

Francine   blushed  as  she  looked  at    the    beads,  which 
had  doubtless  been  a  love-token  between  them. 


"On  this  it  was,"  said  the  Chouan,  with  a  voice  full 
of  feeling,  "that  you  swore—"  but  he  did  not  finish. 
The  peasant  girl  laid  her  hand  on  the  lips  of  her  wild 
lover  to  silence  him. 


IQO  THE    CHOUANS. 

"Need  I  swear?"  said  she. 

He  took  his  mistress  gently  by  the  hand,  gazed  at  her 
for  a  minute  and  went  on:  "Is  the  young  lady  whom 
you  serve  really  named  Mile,  de  Verneui]?-' 

Francine  stood  with  her  arms  hanging  by  her  sides, 
her  eyelids  drooping,  her  head  bent.  She  was  pale  and 
speechless. 

"She  is  a  wanton!  "  continued  Marche-a-Terre  in  a  ter- 
rible voice.  As  he  spoke  the  pretty  hand  tried  to  cover 
his  lips  once  more;  but  this  time  he  started  violently 
back,  and  the  Breton  girl  saw  before  her  no  longer  a  lover, 
but  a  wild  beast  in  all  the  savagery  of  its  nature.  The 
Chouan's  eyebrows  were  fiercely  contracted,  his  lips  were 
drawn  back,  and  he  showed  his  teeth  like  a  dog  at  bay 
in  his  master's  defense.  "I  left  you  a  flower,  and  I  find 
you  carrion!  Ah!  why  did  we  ever  part?  You  have  come 
to  betray  us — to  deliver  up  the  Gars!" 

His  words  were  rather  bellowings  than  articulate 
speech.  But  though  Francine  was  in  terror  at  this  last 
reproach,  she  summoned  courage  to  look  at  his  fierce 
face,  raised  eyes  as  of  an  angel  to  his,  and  answered 
calmly:  "I  will  stake  my  salvation  that  that  is  false. 
These  are  the  notions  of  your  lady  there!  " 

He  lowered  his  eyes  in  turn.  Then  she  took  his  hand, 
turned  towards  him  with  a  caressing  movement,  and 
said:  "Pierre,  what  have  we  to  do  with  all  this? 
Listen  to  me:  I  cannot  tell  how  you  can  understand 
anything  of  it,  for  I  understand  nothing!  But  remem- 
ber that  this  fair  and  noble  young  lady  is  my  benefac- 
tress, that  she  is  yours  too,  and  that  we  live  like  two 
sisters.  No  harm  must  ever  happen  to  her  when  we  are 
by,  at  least  in  our  life-time.  Swear  to  me  that  it  shall 
be  so.  I  have  no  one  here  to  trust  to  but  you!  " 

"I  am  not  master  here!"  replied  the  Chouan,   sulkily, 


A   NOTION    OF    FOUCHfi'S.  IQI 

and  his  face  darkened.  She  took  hold  of  his  great  flap- 
ping ears  and  twisted  them  gently,  as  if  she  was  playing 
with  a  cat. 

"Well,"  said  she,  seeing  him  look  less  stern,  "promise 
me  that  you  will  use  all  the  power  you  have  in  the 
service  of  our  benefactress*" 

He  shook  his  head,  as  if  doubtful  of  success,  and  the 
gesture  made  the  Breton  girl  shudder.  "  At  this  critical 
moment  the  escort  reached  the  causeway.  The  tramp  of 
the  soldiers  and  the  rattle  of  their  arms  woke  the  echoes 
of  the  court-yard,  and  seemed  to  decide  Marche-a-Terre. 

"I  will  save  her — perhaps,"  he  said  to  his  mistress, 
"if  you  can  manage  to  make  her  stay  in  the  house;"  and 
he  added,  "Stay  you  by  her  there,  and  observe  the  deep- 
est silence;  if  not,  I  answer  for  nothing!" 

"I  promise,"  she  answered  in  her  affright. 

"Well,  then,  go  in.  Go  in  at  once,  and  hide  your  fear 
from  everybody,  even  your  mistress.." 

"Yes." 

She  pressed  the  hand  of  the  Chouan,  who  looked  at  her 
with  a  fatherly  air  while  she  flitted  lightly  as  a  bird 
to  the  entrance  steps.  Then  he  plunged  into  the  hedge 
like  an  actor  who  runs  into  the  wings  when  the  curtain 
rises  on  a  tragedy. 

"Do  you  know,  Merle,  that  this  place  looks  to  me  just 
like  a  mouse-trap!  "  sfcid  Gerard,  as  he  reached  the 
chateau. 

"I  see  it  myself,'    said  the  captain,  thoughtfully. 

The  two  officers  made  haste  to  post  sentries  so  as  to 
make  sure  of  the  gate  and  the  causeway;  then  they  cast 
mistrustful  looks  at  the  banks  and  the  surrounding  land- 
scape. 

"Bah!"  said  Merle,  "we  must  either  enter  this  old  bar- 
rack with  confidence  or  not  go  in  at  all." 


IQ2  THE    CHOUANS. 

"Let  us  go  in,"  said  Gerard. 

The  soldiers,  dismissed  from  the  ranks  by  a  word  of 
their  leaders,  quickly  stacked  their  muskets  and  pitched 
the  colors  in  front  of  the  bed  of  straw,  in  the  midst 
whereof  appeared  the  cask  of  cider.  Then  they  broke 
into  groups,  and  two  peasants  began  to  serve  out  butter 


3T...."' 


and  rye-bread  to  them.  The  marquis  came  to  receive 
the  two  officers,  and  conducted  them  to  the  saJoon;  but 
when  Gerard  had  mounted  the  steps  and  had  gazed  at 
the  two  wings  of  the  building  where  the  old  larches 
spread  their  black  boughs,  he  called  Beau-Pied  and 
Clef-des-Coeurs  to  him. 

"You  two  are  to  explore  the  gardens  between  you,  and 


A    NOTION   OF    FOUCHfi'S  193 

to  beat  the  hedges.      Do  you  understand?     Then  you  will 
post  a  sentry  by  the  stand  of  colors." 

"May  we  light  our  fire  before  beginning  the  hunt, 
adjutant?"  said  Clef -des-Cceurs;  and  Gerard  nodded. 

"Look  you,  Clef-des-Coeurs, "  said  Beau-Pied,  "the 
adjutant  is  wrong  to  run  his  head  into  this  wasp's-nest. 
If  Hulot  was  in  command  he  would  never  have  jammed 
himself  up.  We  are  in  a  kind  of  stew-pan!  " 

"You  are  a  donkey,"  replied  Clef-des-Coeurs.  "Why, 
can't  you,  the  king  of  all  sly  fellows,  guess  that  this 
watch-box  is  the  chateau  of  that  amiable  young  lady 
after  whom  our  merry  Merle,  the  most  accomplished  of 
captains,  is  whistling?  He  will  marry  her;  that  is  as 
clear  as  a  well-polished  bayonet.  She  will  do  the  demi- 
brigade  credit,  a  woman  like  that!  " 

"True,"  said  Beau-Pied  ;  "and  you  might  add  that  this 
cider  is  good.  But  I  can't  drink  in  comfort  in  front  of 
these  beastly  hedges.  I  seem  to  be  always  seeing  before 
me  Larose  and  Vieux-Chapeau  as  they  tumbled  into  the 
ditch  on  the  Pilgrim.  I  shall  remember  poor  Larose's 
pigtail  all  my  life.  It  wagged  like  a  knocker  on  a  street 
door. " 

"Beau-Pied,  my  friend,  you  have  too  much  imagination 
for  a  soldier.  You  ought  to  make  songs  at  the  National 
Institute." 

"If  I  have  too  much  imagination,"  replied  Beau-Pied, 
"you  have  got  none.  It  will  be  some  time  before  they 
make  you  consul!  " 

A  laugh  from  the  soldiers  put  an  end  to  the  conversa- 
tion, for  Clef-des-Cceurs  found  he  had  no  cartridge  in  his 
box  as  an  answer  to  his  adversary. 

"Are  you  going  to  make  your  rounds?  I  will  take  the 
right  hand,"  said  Beau-Pied. 

"All  right,  I  will  take  the  left,"  answered  his  comrade; 

'3 


194  THE  CHOUANS. 

"but  wait  a  minute  first.  I  want  to  drink  a  glass  of 
cider;  my  throat  is  gummed  up  like  the  sticking-plaster  on 
Hulot's  best  hat. " 

Now,  the  left-hand  side  of  the  garden,  which  Clef-des- 
Coeurs  thus  neglected  to  explore  at  once,  was  unluckily 
that  very  dangerous  bank  where  Francine  had  seen  men 
moving.  All  is  chance  in  war. 

As  Gerard  entered  the  saloon  and  bowed  to  the  com- 
pany, he  cast  a  penetrating  glance  on  the  men  of  whom 
that  company  was  composed.  His  suspicions  returned 
upon  his  mind  with  greater  strength  than  ever;  he  sud- 
denly went  to  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  and  said  to  her  in  a  low 
tone,  "I  think  you  had  better  withdraw  quickly;  we  are 
not  safe  here. " 

"Are  you  afraid  of  anything  in  my  house?"  she  asked, 
laughing.  "You  are  safer  here  than  you  would  be  at 
Mayenne. " 

A  woman  always  answers  confidently  for  her  lover;  and 
the  two  officers  were  less  anxious. 

The  company  immediately  went  into  the  dining-room, 
in  spite  of  some  casual  mention  of  a  somewhat  important 
guest  who  was  late.  Mile,  de  Verneuil  was  able,  thanks 
to  the  usual  silence  at  the  beginning  of  dinner,  to  bestow 
some  attention  on  this  assembly,  which  in  its  actual  cir- 
cumstances was  curious  enough,  and  of  which  she  was  in 
a  manner  the  cause,  in  virtue  of  the  ignorance  which 
women,  who  are  accustomed  to  take  nothing  seriously, 
carry  into  the  most  critical  incidents  of  life.  One  fact 
suddenly  struck  her — that  the  two  Republican  officers 
dominated  the  whole  company  by  the  imposing  character 
of  their  countenances.  Their  long  hair  drawn  back  from 
the  temples,  and  clubbed  in  a  huge  pigtail  behind  the 
neck,  gave  to  their  foreheads  the  pure  and  noble  outline 
which  so  adorns  youthful  heads.  Their  threadbare  blue 


A  NOTION   OF    FOUCHfi'S.  195 

uniforms,  with  the  worn  red  facings,  even  their  epaulettes, 
flung  back  in  marching,  and  showing  (as  they  were  wont 
to  do  throughout  the  army,  even  in  the  case  of  generals) 
evidence  of  the  lack  of  great-coats,  made  a  striking  con- 
trast between  these  martial  figures  and  the  company  in 
which  they  were. 

"Ah!  there  is  the  nation,  there  is  liberty!  "  thought  she; 
then,  glancing  at  the  Royalists,  "and  there  is  a  single 
man,  a  king,  and  privilege!  " 

She  could  not  help  admiring  the  figure  of  Merle,  so 
exactly  did  the  lively  soldier  answer  to  the  type  of  the 
French  warrior  who  can  whistle  an  air  in  the  midst  of 
bullets,  and  who  never  forgets  to  pass  a  joke  on  the  com- 
rade who  makes  a  blunder.  Gerard,  on  the  other  hand, 
had  a  commanding  presence,  grave  and  cool.  He  seemed 
to  possess  one  of  those  truly  Republican  souls  who  at 
the  time  thronged  the  French  armies,  and,  inspiring  them 
with  a  spirit  of  devotion  as  noble  as  it  was  unobtrusive, 
impressed  on  them  a  character  of  hitherto  unknown 
energy. 

"There  is  one  of  those  who  take  long  views,"  said 
Mile,  de  Verneuil;  "they  take  their  stand  on  the  present, 
and  dominate  it;  they  destroy  the  past,  but  it  is  for  the 
good  of  the  future." 

The  thought  saddened  her,  because  it  did  not  apply  to 
her  lover,  towards  whom  she  turned,  that  she  might 
avenge  herself  by  a  fresh  feeling  of  admiration  on  the 
Republic,  which  she  already  began  to  hate.  As  she  saw 
the  marquis  surrounded  by  men,  bold  enough,  fanatical 
enough,  and  gifted  with  sufficient  power  of  speculating  on 
the  future,  to  attack  a  vigorous  Republic,  in  the  hope  of 
restoring  a  dead  monarchy,  a  religion  laid  under  interdict, 
princes  errant,  and  privileges  out  of  date,  she  thought, 
"He  at  least  looks  as  far  as  the  other,  for,  amid  the  ruins 


196  THE    CHOUANS. 

where  he  ensconces  himself,  he  is  striving  to  make  a 
future  out  of  the  past." 

Her  mind,  feeding  full  on  fancies,  wavered  between  the 
new  ruins  and  the  old.  Her  conscience  indeed  warned  her 
one  man  was  righting  for  a  single  individual,  the  other 
for  his  country;  but  that  sentiment  had  carried  her  to  the 
same  point  at  which  others  arrive  by  a  process  of  reason- 
ing— to  the  acknowledgment  that  the  king  is  the  country. 

The  marquis,  hearing  the  step  of  a  man  in  the  saloon, 
rose  to  go  and  meet  him.  He  recognized  the  belated 
guest,  who,  surprised  at  his  company,  was  about  to 
speak.  But  the  Gars  hid  from  the  Republicans  the  sign 
which  he  made  desiring  the  new-comer  to  be  silent  and 
join  the  feast.  As  the  two  officers  studied  the  counte- 
nances of  their  hosts,  the  suspicions  which  they  had  first 
entertained  revived.  The  Abbe  Gudin's  priestly  garb, 
and  the  eccentricity  of  the  Chouans'  attire,  alarmed  their 
prudence;  they  became  more  watchful  than  ever,  and 
soon  made  out  some  amusing  contrasts  between  the 
behavior  and  the  language  of  the  guests.  While  the 
Republicanism  which  some  showed  was  exaggerated,  the 
ways  of  others  were  aristocratic  in  the  extreme.  Some 
glances  which  they  caught  passing  between  the  marquis 
and  his  guests,  some  phrases  of  double  meaning  indis- 
creetly uttered,  and,  most  of  all,  the  full  round  beards 
which  adorned  the  throats  of  several  guests,  and  which 
were  hidden  awkwardly  enough  by  their  cravats,  at  last 
told  the  two  officers  a  truth  which  struck  both  at  the 
same  moment.  They  communicated  their  common 
thought  to  each  other  by  a  single  interchange  of  looks; 
for  Madame  du  Gua  had  dextrously  divided  them,  and 
they  were  confined  to  eye-language.  Their  situation 
made  it  imperative  that  they  should  behave  warily,  for 
they  knew  not  whether  they  were  masters  of  the  chateau 


A    NOTION   OF    FOUCHI'.'S.  IQ7 

or  had  fallen  into  an  ambuscade — whether  Mile,  de  Ver- 
neuil  was  the  dupe  or  the  accomplice  of  this  puzzling 
adventure.  But  an  unforeseen  event  hastened  the  catas- 
trophe before  they  had  had  time  to  estimate  its  full  grav- 
ity. The  new  guest  was  one  of  those  high-complexioned 
persons,  squarely  built  throughout,  who  lean  back  as 
they  walk,  who  seem  to  make  a  commotion  in  the  air 
around  them,  and  who  think  that  everyone  will  take  more 
looks  than  one  as  they  pass.  Despite  his  rank,  he  had 
taken  life  as  a  joke  which  one  must  make  the  best  of; 
but  though  a  worshiper  of  self,  he  was  good-natured, 
polite,  and  intelligent  enough  after  the  fashion  of  those 
country  gentlemen  who,  having  finished  their  education 
at  court,  return  to  their  estates,  and  will  not  admit  the 
idea  that  they  can  even  in  a  score  of  years  have  grown 
rusty  there.  Such  men  make  a  grave  blunder  with  per- 
fect self-possession,  say  silly  things  in  a  witty  way,  dis- 
trust good  fortune  with  a  great  deal  of  shrewdness,  and 
take  extraordinary  pains  to  get  themselves  into  a  mess. 
When,  by  plying  knife  and  fork  in  the  style  of  a  good 
trencherman,  he  had  made  up  for  lost  time,  he  cast  his 
eyes  over  the  company.  His  astonishment  was  redoubled 
as  he  saw  the  two  officers,  and  he  directed  a  questioning 
glance  at  Madame  du  Gua,-  who  by  way  of  sole  reply 
pointed  Mile,  de  Verneuil  out  to  him.  When  he  saw  the 
enchantress  whose  beauty  was  already  beginning  to  stifle 
the  feelings  which  Madame  du  Gua  had  excited  in  the 
company's  minds,  the  portly  stranger  let  slip  one  of  those 
insolent  and  mocking  smiles  which  seem  to  contain  the 
whole  of  an  equivocal  story.  He  leaned  towards  his  neigh- 
bor's ear,  saying  two  or  three  words,  and  these  words, 
which  remained  a  secret  for  the  officers  and  Marie,  jour- 
neyed from  ear  to  ear,  from  lip  to  lip.  till  they  reached 
the  heart  of  him  on  whom  they  were  to  inflict  a  mortal 


ig8  THE    CHOUANS. 

wound.  The  Vend£an  and  Chouan  chiefs  turned  their 
glances  with  merciless  curiosity  on  the  Marquis  of  Mon- 
tauran,  while  those  of  Madame  du  Gua,  flashing  with 
joy,  traveled  from  the  marquis  to  the  astonished  Mile,  de 
Verneuil.  The  officers  interrogated  each  other  anxiously 
but  mutely,  as  they  waited  for  the  end  of  this  strange 
scene.  Then,  in  a  moment,  the  forks  ceased  to  play  in 
every  hand,  silence  reigned  in  the  hall,  and  all  eyes  were 
concentrated  on  the  Gars.  A  frightful  burst  of  rage 
flushed  his  face  with  anger,  and  then  bleached  it  to  the 
color  of  wax.  The  young  chief  turned  to  the  guest  from 
whom  this  train  of  slow  match  had  started,  and  said  in  a 
voice  that  seemed  muffled  in  crape: 

"Death  of  my  life!    Count,  is  that  true?" 

"On  my  honor,"  said  the  count,  bowing  gravely. 

The  marquis  dropped  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  then, 
raising  them  quickly,  directed  them  at  Marie,  who  was 
watching  the  struggle,  and  received  a  deadly  glance. 

"I  would  give  my  life,"  said  he  in  a  low  tone,  "for 
instant  vengeance!  " 

The  mere  movement  of  his  lips  interpreted  this  phrase 
to  Madame  du  Gua,  and  she  smiled  on  the  young  man  as 
one  smiles  at  a  friend  whose  misery  will  soon  be  over. 
The  scorn  for  Mile,  de  Verneuil  which  was  depicted  on 
every  face  put  the  finishing  touch  to  the  wrath  of  the  two 
Republicans,  who  rose  abruptly. 

"What  do  you  desire,  citizens?"  asked  Madame  du  Gua. 

"Our  swords,  citizeness"  said  Gerard  with  sarcasm. 

"You  do  not  need  them  at  table,"  said  the  marquis  coldly. 

"No;  but  we  are  about  to  play  a  game  which  you 
know,"  answered  Gerard.*  "We  shall  have  a  little  closer 
view  of  each  other  than  we  had  at  the  Pilgrim!  " 


*  The  text  has  here  en  rcparaissnnt ,  "re-appearing."  It  has  not  been  said  that 
Gerard  had  left  the  room,  nor  could  he  well  have  done  so.  The  words  are  probably 
an  oversight.—  Translator's  Aote. 


A  NOTION  OF    FOUCHfi'S.  1 99 

The  assembly  was  struck  dumb;  but  at  the  same 
moment  a  volley,  discharged  with  a  regularity  appall- 
ing to  the  officers,  crashed  out  in  the  court-yard.  They 
darted  to  the  entrance  steps,  and  thence  they  saw  some 
hundred  Chouans  taking  aim  at  a  few  soldiers  who  had 
survived  the  first  volley,  and  shooting  them  down  like 
hares.  The  Bretons  had  come  forth  from  the  bank 
where  Marche-a-Terre  had  posted  them — a  post  occupied 
at  the  peril  of  their  lives,  for  as  they  executed  their 
movement,  and  after  the  last  shots  died  away,  there  was 
heard  above  the  groans  of  the  dying  the  sound  of  some 
Chouans  falling  into  the  water  with  the  splash  of  stones 
dropping  into  an  abyss.  Pille-Miche  leveled  his  piece 
at  Gerard,  and  Marche-a-Terre  covered  Merle. 

"Captain,"  said  the  marquis  coolly  to  Merle,  repeating 
the  words  which  the  Republican  had  uttered  respecting 
himself,  "you  see,  men  are  like  medlars,  they  ripen  on  straw." 
And  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  he  showed  him  the  whole 
escort  of  Blues  stretched  on  the  blood-stained  litter, 
where  the  Chouans  were  dispatching  the  living  and  strip- 
ping the  dead  with  incredible  rapidity.  "I  was  right  in 
telling  you  that  your  soldiers  would  not  reach  the  Pil- 
grim," added  the  marquis;  "also  I  think  your  head  will 
be  full  of  lead  before  mine  is.  What  say  you?" 

Montauran  felt  a  hideous  desire  to  sate  his  rage,  and 
his  irony  towards  the  vanquished,  the  savagery,  and  even 
the  treachery  of  this  military  execution,  which  had  been 
carried  out  without  his  orders,  but  for  which  he  thus 
made  himself  responsible,  corresponded  with  the  secret 
wishes  of  his  heart.  In  his  fury  he  would  have  anni- 
hilated France  itself,  and  the  murdered  Blues,  with  the 
two  officers  who  were  still  alive,  though  all  were  inno- 
cent of  the  crime  for  which  he  was  demanding  vengeance, 


200  THE    CHOUANS. 

were  in  his  hands  like  the  cards  which  a  desperate  game- 
ster tears  with  his  teeth. 

"I  would  rather  perish  thus  than  triumph  like  you!  " 
said  Gerard,  and  as  he  saw  his  men  lying  naked  in  their 
blood,  he  cried,  "You  have  foully  murdered  them!  " 

"Yes,  sir,  as  Louis  XVI.  was  murdered,"  replied  the 
marquis  sharply. 

"Sir,"  replied  Gerard  haughtily,  "there  is  a  mystery  in 
the  trial  of  a  king  which  you  will  never  comprehend." 

"What!  bring  a  king  to  trial!"  cried  the  marquis 
excitedly. 

"What!  bear  arms  against  France!"  retorted  Gerard  in 
a  tone  of  disdain. 

"Nonsense!  "  said  the  marquis. 

"Parricide!"  cried  the  Republican. 

"Regicide!"  returned  the  other. 

"What!"  said  Merle,  merrily  enough,  "are  you  seizing 
the  moment  of  your  death  to  bandy  arguments?  " 

"You  say  well,"  said  Gerard,  coolly,  turning  once 
more  towards  the  marquis.  "Sir,  if  it  is  your  intention 
to  kill  us,  do  us  at  least  the  favor  to  shoot  us  at 
once. " 

"How  like  you!"  struck  in  the  captain;  "always  in  a 
hurry  to  have  done!  My  good  friend,  when  a  man  has  a 
long  journey  to  make,  and  is  not  likely  to  breakfast  next 
day,  he  takes  time  with  his  supper." 

But  Gerard,  without  a  word,  walked  swiftly  and 
proudly  to  the  wall.  Pille-Miche  took  aim  at  him,  and 
seeing  the  marquis  motionless,  he  took  his  chief's  silence 
for  an  order,  nred,  and  the  adjutant-major  fell  like  a 
tree.  Marche  a-Terre  ran  forward  to  share  this  new 
boot\'  with  Pille-Miche,  and  they  wrangled  and  grumbled 
lil-i :•.•  tv/o  hungry  ravens  over  the  still  warm  corpse. 

'  It   you   wish   to    finish    your  supper,   captain,   you  are 


A   NOTION    OF    FOUCHfc'S.  2OI 

free  to  come  with  me,"  said  the  marquis  to  Merle,  whom 
he  wished  to  keep  for  exchange. 

The  captain  went  mechanically  into  the  house  with 
the  marquis,  saying  in  a  low  tone,  as  if  reproaching 
himself,  "It  is  that  devil  of  a  wench  who  is  the  cause  of 
this!  What  will  Hulot  say?" 

"Wench!"  said  the  marquis,  with  a  stifled  cry;  "then 
she  is  really  and  truly  a  wench?" 

It  might  have  been  thought  that  the  captain  had  dealt 
a  mortal  blow  to  Montauran,  who  followed  him  pale, 
gloomy,  disordered,  and  with  tottering  steps.  Mean- 
while there  had  passed  in  the  dining-room  another  scene, 
which  in  the  absence  of  the  marquis  took  so  sinister  a 
character  that  Marie,  finding  herself  without  her  cham- 
pion, might  reasonably  believe  in  the  death-warrant  she 
saw  in  her  rival's  eyes.  At  the  sound  of  the  volley  every 
guest  had  risen  save  Madame  du  Gua. 

"Do  not  be  alarmed,"  said  she;  "'tis  nothing.  Our 
folk  are  only  killing  the  Blues!  "  But  as  soon  as  she 
saw  that  the  marquis  had  left  the  room,  she  started  up. 
''This  young  lady  here,"  she  cried,  with  the  calmness  of 
smothered  fury,  "came  to  carry  off  the  Gars  from  us. 
She  came  to  try  and  give  him  up  to  the  Republic!  " 

"Since  this  morning  I  could  have  given  him  up  twenty 
times  over,"  replied  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  "and  I  saved 
his  life  instead." 

But  Madame  du  Gua  dashed  at  her  rival  like  a  flash 
of  lightning.  In  her  blind  excitement  she  wrenched 
open  the  flimsy  frogs  on  the  spencer  of  the  girl  (who 
was  taken  unawares  by  this  sudden  assault),  violated 
with  brutal  hand  the  sacred  asylum  where  the  letter 
was  hidden,  tore  the  stuff,  the  trimmings,  the  corset, 
the  shift,  nay,  even  made  the  most  of  this  search  so  as 
to  slake  her  jealous  hatred,  and  so  ardently  and  cruelly 


202  THE    CHOUANS. 

mauled  the  panting  breast  of  her  rival  that  she  left  on 
it  the  bloody  traces  of  her  nails,  feeling  a  delight  in  sub- 
jecting her  to  so  vile  a  profanation.  As  Marie  feebly 
attempted  to  withstand  the  furious  woman,  her  hood 
became  unfastened  and  fell,  her  hair  burst  its  bonds  and 
rolled  down  in  wavy  curls,  a  modest  blush  glowed  on  her 
face,  and  then  two  tears  made  their  moist  and  burning 
way  down  her  cheeks,  leaving  her  bright  eyes  brighter 
still.  In  short,  the  disorder  of  the  struggle  exposed  her 
shuddering  to  the  gaze  of  the  guests,  and  the  most  cal- 
lous judges  must  have  believed  her  innocent  as  they  saw 
her  suffer. 

Hatred  is  so  blind  that  Madame  du  Gua  did  not  notice 
that  no  one  listened  to  her,  as  in  her  triumph  she  cried 
out,  "See,  gentlemen!  have  I  slandered  the  horrid  creat- 
ure?" 

"Not  so  very  horrid,"  whispered  the  portly  guest  who 
had  been  the  cause  of  the  misfortune;  "for  my  part,  I 
am  uncommonly  fond  of  horrid  things  like  that!  " 

"Here,"  continued  the  vindictive  Vend£an  lady,  "is  an 
order,  signed  'Laplace,' and  countersigned  'Dubois. '  "  At 
these  names  some  persons  raised  their  heads  in  atten- 
tion. "And  this  is  its  tenor,"  went  on  Madame  du  Gua: 
' '  '  Citizen  commandants  of  the  forces  of  all  ranks,  district 
administrators,  procurators,  syndics,  and  so  forth,  in  the. 
revolted  departments,  and  especially  those  of  the  places  where 
the  ci-devant  Marquis  de  Montauran,  brigand-chief,  surnamed 
the  Gars,  may  be  found,  are  to  afford  succor  and  help  to  the 
citizcness  Marie  Vcrneuil,  and  to  obey  any  orders  which  she 
may  give  tliem,  each  in  such  matters  as  concern  him,  etc.,  etc.'  ' 

"To  think  of  an  opera  girl  taking  an  illustrious  name 
in  order  to  soil  it  with  such  infamy!  "  she  added.  The 
company  showed  a  movement  of  surprise. 

"The   game    is   not  fair  if  the  Republic  employs  such 


A   NOTION  OF    FOUCHfi's. 


203 


pretty  women  against  us!  "  said  the  Baron  du  Guenic, 
pleasantly. 

"Especially  girls  who  have  nothing  left  to  stake," 
rejoined  Madame  du  Gua. 

"Nothing?"  said  the  Chevalier  du  Vissard.  "Why,  mad- 
emoiselle has  resources  which  must  bring  her  in  a  plen- 
teous income!  " 

"The  Republic  must  be  in  very  merry  mood  to  send 
ladies  of  pleasure  to  lay  traps  for  us!  "  cried  Abbe  Gudin. 

"But,  unluckily,  mademoiselle  looks  for  pleasures 
which  kill,"  said  Madame  du  Gua,  with  an  expression  of 
hideous  joy,  which  denoted  the  end  of  her  jokes. 

"How  is  it,  then,  that  you  are  still  alive,  madame?"  said 
the  victim,  regaining  her  'feet  after  repairing  the  disorder 
of  her  dress.  This  stinging  epigram  produced  some 
respect  for  so  undaunted  a  martyr,  and  struck  silence  on 
the  company.  Madame  du  Gua  saw  flitting  over  the 
chief's  lips  a  sarcastic  smile  which  maddened  her;  and 
not  perceiving  that  the  marquis  and  the  captain  had  come 
in,  "Pille-Miche,"  she  said  to  the  Chouan,  "take  her 
away,  she  is  my  share  of  the  spoil,  and  I  give  her  to 
3'ou.  Do  with  her  whatever  you  like." 

As  she  spoke  the  word  "whatever,"  the  company  shud- 
dered, for  the  frightful  heads  of  Pille-Miche  and  Marche- 
a-Terre  showed  themselves  behind  the  marquis,  and  the 
meaning  of  the  intended  punishment  appeared  in  all  its 
horror. 

Francine  remained  standing,  her  hands  clasped,  her 
eyes  streaming,  as  if  thunderstruck.  But  Mile,  de  Ver- 
neuil,  who  in  the  face  of  danger  recovered  all  her  presence 
of  mind,  cast  a  look  of  disdain  at  the  assembly,  repos- 
sessed herself  of  the  letter  which  Madame  du  Gua  held, 
raised  her  head,  and  with  eyes  dry,  but  flashing  fire, 
darted  to  the  door  where  stood  Merle's  sword.  Here  she 


204 


THE   CHOUANS. 


met  the  marquis,  cold  and  motionless  as  a  statue. 
There  was  no  plea  in  her  favor  on  his  face  with  its  fixed 
and  rigid  features.  Struck  to  the  heart,  she  felt  life 
become  hateful.  So,  then,  the  man  who  had  shown  her 
such  affection  had  just  listened  to  the  jeers  which  had  been 
heaped  upon  her,  and  had  remained  an  unmoved  witness 


+U, 


of  the  outrage  she  had  suffered  when  those  beauties 
which  a  woman  keeps  as  the  privilege  of  love  had  been 
subjected  to  the  common  gaze.  She  might  perhaps  have 
pardoned  Montauran  for  his  contemptuous  feelings;  she 
was  indignant  at  having  been  seen  by  him  in  a  posture  of 
disgrace.  She  darted  at  him  a  glance  full  of  half-irra- 
tional hatred,  and  felt  terrible  desires  of  vengeance  spring- 
ing up  in  her  heart.  With  death  dogging  her  steps,  her 
impotence  choked  her.  As  it  were  a  whirlwind  of  mad- 
ness rose  to  her  brain,  her  boiling  blood  made  her  see 


A   NOTION    OF    FOUCHfi's. 


205 


everything  around  in  the  glare  of  a  conflagration;  and 
then,  instead  of  killing  herself,  she  seized  the  sword, 
flourished  it  at  the  marquis,  and  drove  it  on  him  up  to 
the  hilt.  But  the  blade  slipped  between  his  arm  and  his 
side;  the  Gars  caught  Marie  by  her  wrist  and  dragged 
her  from  the  room,  assisted  by  Pille-Miche,  who  threw 
himself  on  the  mad  woman  at  the  moment  when  she 
tried  to  kill  the  marquis.  At  this  spectacle  Francine 
uttered  piercing  cries.  "Pierre!  Pierre!  Pierre!"  she 
shrieked  in  piteous  tones,  and  as  she  cried  she  followed 
her  mistress. 

The  marquis  left  the  company  to  its  astonishment,  and 
went  forth,  shutting  the  door  after  him.  When  he 
reached  the  entrance  steps  he  was  still  holding  the  girl's 
wrist  and  clutching  it  convulsively,  while  the  nervous 
hands  of  Pille-Miche  nearly  crushed  the  bones  of  her 
arm:  but  she  felt  only  the  burning  grasp  of  the  young 
chief,  at  whom  she  directed  a  cold  gaze. 

"Sir,"  she  said,  "you  hurt  me." 

But  the  only  answer  of  the  marquis  was  to  stare  for  a 
moment  at  his  mistress. 

"Have  you,  then,  something  to  take  base  vengeance  for, 
as  well  as  that  woman?"  she  said;  and  then  seeing  the 
corpses  stretched  on  the  straw,  she  cried  with  a  shudder, 
"The  faith  of  a  gentleman!  ha!  ha!  ha!"  and  after  this 
burst  of  hideous  laughter,  she  added,  "A  happy  day!  " 

"Yes,  a  happy  one,"  he  answered,  "and  one  without  a 
morrow!  " 

He  dropped  Mile,  de  Verneuil's  hand,  after  gazing  with 
a  long,  last  look  at  the  exquisite  creature  whom  he  could 
hardly  bring  himself  to  renounce.  Neither  of  these  lofty 
spirits  would  bend.  The  marquis  perhaps  expected  tears  ; 
but  the  girl's  eyes  remained  proudly  dry.  He  turned 
brusquely  away,  leaving  Pille-Miche  his  victim. 


206  THE    CHOUANS. 

"Marquis!  "  she  said,  "God  will  hear  me,  and  I  shall 
pray  Him  to  give  you  a  happy  day  without  a  morrow!  " 

Pille-Miche,  who  was  something  embarrassed  with  so 
fair  a  prey,  drew  her  off  gently,  and  with  a  mixture  of 
respect  and  contempt.  The  marquis  sighed,  returned  to 
the  chamber,  and  showed  his  guests  the  face  as  of  a 
dead  man  whose  eyes  have  not  been  closed. 

That  Captain  Merle  should  still  be  there  was  unintelli- 
gible to  the  actors  in  this  tragedy;  and  they  all  looked  at 
him  with  surprise,  their  looks  questioning  each  other. 
Merle  observed  the  Chouans'  astonishment,  and  still  keep- 
ing up  his  part,  he  said  to  them,  with  a  forced  smile: 

"I  hardly  think,  gentlemen,  that  you  will  refuse  a 
glass  of  wine  to  a  man  who  is  about  to  take  his  last 
journey."  At  the  very  same  minute  at  which  these 
words  were  spoken,  with  a  Gallic  gayety  which  ought  to 
have  pleased  the  Vendeans,  Montauran  reappeared,  and 
his  pale  face  and  glazed  eyes  chilled  all  the  guests. 

"You  shall  see,"  said  the  captain,  "that  the  dead  man 
will  set  the  living  ones  going." 

"Ah!"  said  the  marquis,  with  the  gesture  of  a  man 
suddenly  awakening,  "you  are  there,  my  dear  court- 
martial?" 

And  he  handed  him  a  bottle  of  vin  de  grave  as  if  to  fill 
his  glass. 

"Ah!  no,  thanks,  citizen  marquis.  I  might  lose  my 
head,  you  see. " 

At  this  sally  Madame  du  Gua  said  to  the  guests,  smil- 
ing: 

"Come,  let  us  excuse  him  the  dessert." 

"You  are  very  severe  in  your  revenge,  madame, "  said 
the  captain.  "You  forget  my  murdered  friend,  who  is 
waiting  for  me.  I  bide  tryst." 

"Captain,"    said    the    marquis,    throwing    his   glove  to 


A   NOTION  OF    FOUCHfi'S.  307 

him,  "you  are  a  free  man.  There,  that  will  be  your 
passport.  The  King's  Huntsmen  know  that  one  must 
not  kill  down  all  the  game." 

"Life,  by  all  means!"  answered  Merle.  "But  you  are 
wrong.  I  give  you  my  word  that  I  shall  play  the  game 
strictly  with  you.  You  will  get  no  quarter  from  me. 
Clever  as  you  may  be,  you  are  not  Gerard's  equal,  and 
though  your  head  will  never  make  amends  to  me  for  his, 
I  must  have  it,  and  I  will  have  it." 

"Why  was  he  in  such  a  hurry?"  retorted  the  marquis. 

"Farewell!  I  could  have  drunk  with  my  own  execu- 
tioners, but  I  cannot  stay  with  the  murderers  of  my 
friend,"  said  the  captain,  disappearing,  and  leaving  the 
guests  in  astonishment. 

"Well,  gentlemen,  what  do  you  say  now  of  the  alder- 
men, the  doctors,  the  lawyers,  who  govern  the  Repub- 
lic?" said  the  Gars  coolly. 

"God's  death!  marquis,"  answered  the  Count  de  Bau- 
van,  "whatever  you  may  say,  they  are  very  ill-mannered. 
It  seems  to  me  that  that  fellow  insulted  us." 

But  the  captain's  sudden  retirement  had  a  hidden 
motive.  The  girl  who  had  been  the  subject  of  so  much 
contumely  and  humiliation,  and  who  perhaps  was  falling 
a  victim  at  the  very  moment,  had,  during  the  scene, 
shown  him  beauties  so  difficult  to  forget,  that  he  said  to 
himself  as  he  went  out: 

"If  she  is  a  wench,  she  is  no  common  one;  and  I  can 
do  with  her  as  a  wife." 

He  doubted  so  little  his  ability  to  save  her  from 
these  savages  that  his  first  thought  after  receiving  his 
own  life  had  been  to  take  her  forthwith  under  his  pro- 
tection. Unluckily,  when  he  arrived  at  the  entrance, 
the  captain  found  the  court-yard  deserted.  He  looked 
around  him,  listened  in  the  silence,  and  heard  nothing 


2O8  THE    CHOUANS. 

but  the  far-off  laughter  of  the  Chouans,  who  were  drink- 
ing in  the  gardens  while  sharing  their  booty.  He  vent- 
ured to  look  round  the  fatal  wing  in  front  of  which  his 
men  had  been  shot  down,  and  from  the  corner,  by  the 
feeble  light  of  a  few  candles,  he  could  distinguish  the 
various  groups  of  the  King's  Huntsmen.  Neither  Pille- 
Miche  nor  Marche-a-Terre  nor  the  young  lady  was  there; 
but  at  the  same  moment  he  felt  the  skirt  of  his  coat 
gently  pulled,  and  turning,  he  saw  Francine  on  her 
knees. 

"Where  is  she?"  said  he. 

"I  do  not  know.  Pierre  drove  me  away,  telling  me 
not  to  stir." 

"Which  way  have  they  gone?" 

"That  way,"  said  she,  pointing  to  the  causeway.  The 
captain  and  Francine  then  saw  in  this  direction  certain 
shadows  thrown  by  the  moonlight  on  the  waters  of  the 
lake,  and  they  recognized  feminine  outlines  whose  ele- 
gance, indistinct  as  they  were,  made  both  their  hearts 
beat. 

"Oh,   it  is  she!  "  said  the  Breton  girl. 

Mile,  de  Verneuil  appeared  to  be  quietly  standing  in 
the  midst  of  a  group  whose  attitudes  indicated  discus- 
s-ion. 

"They  are  more  than  one!  "  cried  the  captain.  "Never 
mind;  let  us  go." 

"You  will  get  yourself  killed  to  no  profit,"  said  Fran- 
cine. 

"I  have  died  once  to-day  already,"  answered  he, 
lightly.  And  both  bent  their  steps  towards  the  dark 
gate-way  behind  which  the  scene  was  passing.  In  the 
midst  of  the  way  Francine  halted. 

"Xo!  I  will  go  no  farther!"  said  she  gently.  "Pierre 
told  me  not  to  meddle.  I  know  him;  and  we  shall  spoil 


A    NOTION    OF    FOUCHfi's. 


209 


all.      Do  what  you  like,  Mr.  Officer,  but  pray  depart.      If 
Pierre  were  to  see  you  with  me,  he  would  kill  you." 

At  that  moment  Pille-Miche  showed  himself  outside 
the  gate,  saw  the  captain,  and  cried,  leveling  his  gun  at 
him: 

"Saint  Anne  of  Auray!  the  rector  of  Antrain  was  right 
when  he  said  that  the  Blues  made  bargains  with  the 
devil!  Wait  a  bit;  I  will  teach  you  to  come  alive  again, 
I  will!" 

"Ah!  but  I  have  had  my  life  given  me,"  cried  Merle, 
seeing  the  threat.  "Here  is  your  chief's  glove." 

"Yes!    that  is  just  like  a  ghost!"  retorted  the  Chouan. 

"/won't  give  you  your  life.     Ave  Maria!" 

He  fired,  and  the  bullet  hit  the  captain  in  the  head 
and  dropped  him.  When  Francine  drew  near  Merle  she 
heard  him  murmur  these  words:  "I  had  rather  stay  with 
them  than  return  without  them!  " 

The  Chouan  plunged  on  the  Blue  to  strip  him,  say- 
ing: "The  good  thing  about  these  ghosts  is  that  they 
come  alive  again  with  their  clothes  on."  But  when  he 
saw,  after  the  captain's  gesture  of  showing  the  chief's 
glove,  this  sacred  passport  in  his  hand,  he  stood  dumb- 
founded. "I  would  I  were  not  in  the  skin  of  my  mother's 
son!  "  he  cried,  and  vanished  with  the  speed  of  a  bird. 

To  understand  this  meeting,  which  proved  so  fatal  to 
the  captain,  it  is  necessary  to  follow  Mile,  de  Verneuil. 
When  the  marquis,  overcome  with  despair  and  rage, 
abandoned  her  to  Pille-Miche,  at  that  moment  Francine 
convulsively  caught  Marche-a-Terre's  arm,  and  reminded 
him  with  tears  in  her  eyes  of  the  promise  he  had  made 
her.  A  few  paces  from  them,  Pille-Miche  was  dragging 
off  his  vicitm,  just  as  he  would  have  hauled  after  him 
any  worthless  burden.  Marie,  with  streaming  hair  and 
bowed  head,  turned  her  eyes  towards  the  lake;  but,  held 
14 


2IO  THE   CHOUANS. 

back  by  a  grasp  of  steel,  she  was  obliged  slowly  to 
follow  the  Chouan,  who  turned  more  than  once  either  to 
look  at  her  or  to  hasten  her  steps,  and  at  each  turn  some 
festive  thought  sketched  on  his  face  a  horrible  smile. 

"Isn't  she  smart?"  he  cried,  with  clumsy  emphasis. 

As  she  heard  these  words,  Francine  recovered  her 
speech. 

"Pierre! "  she  said. 

"Well?" 

"Is  he  going  to  kill  mademoiselle?" 

"Not  at  once,"  answered  Marche-a-Terre. 

"But  she  will  not  take  it  quietly,  and  if  she  dies,  I 
will  die!  " 

"Ah!  very  well — you  are  too  fond  of  her.  Let  her 
die!  "  said  Marche-a-Terre. 

"If  we  are  ever  rich  and  happy,  it  is  to  her  that  we 
shall  owe  our  happiness.  But  what  does  that  matter? 
Did  you  not  promise  to  save  her  from  all  evil?" 

"1  will  try;    but  stay  you  there,  and  do  not  budge." 

Marche-a-Terre' s  arm  was  at  once  released,  and  Fran- 
cine,  a  prey  to  the  most  terrible  anxiety,  waited  in  the 
court-yard.  Marche-a-Terre  rejoined  his  comrade  at  the 
moment  when  Pille-Miche  had  entered  the  barn  and 
had  forced  his  victim  to  get  into  the  carriage.  He  now 
demanded  the  help  of  his  mate  to  run  it  out. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  all  this?"  asked 
Marche-a-Terre. 

"Well,  the  Grande-Garce  has  given  me  the  woman;  and 
all  she  has  is  mine." 

"That  is  all  very  well  as  to  the  carriage — you  will 
make  some  money  of  it;  but  the  woman  will  scratch 
your  eyes  out. " 

Pille-Miche  laughed  loudly,  and  replied: 


A   NOTION   OF    FOUCHfe's.  211 

"Why,*  I  shall  carry  her  to  my  place,  and  tie  her 
hands." 

"Well,  then,  let  us  put  the  horses  to,"  said  Marche-a- 
Terre;  and  a  moment  later,  leaving  his  comrade  to  guard 
the  prey,  he  brought  the  carriage  out  of  the  door  on  to 
the  causeway.  Pille-Miche  got  in  by  Mile,  de  Ver- 
neuil,  but  did  not  notice  that  she  was  gathering  herself 
up  for  a  spring  into  the  lake. 

"Hullo!  Pille-Miche,"  cried  Marche-a-Terre,  sud- 
denly. 

"What?" 

"I  will  buy  your  whole  booty  from  you." 

"Are  you  joking?"  asked  the  Chouan,  pulling  his  pris- 
oner towards  him  by  her  skirts  as  a  butcher  might  pull  a 
calf  trying  to  escape. 

"Let  me  see  her:    I  will  make  you  a  bid." 

The  unhappy  girl  was  obliged  to  alight,  and  stood 
between  the  two  Chouans,  each  of  whom  held  her  by 
a  hand,  staring  at  her  as  the  elders  must  have  stared 
at  Susanna  in  her  bath. 

"Will  you  take,"  said  Marche-a-Terre,  heaving  a  sigh, 
"will  you  take  thirty  good  livres  a  year?" 

"You  mean  it?" 

"Done!  "    said  Marche-a-Terre,  holding  out  his   hand. 

"And  done!  There  is  plenty  in  that  to  get  Breton 
girls  with,  and  smart  ones,  too!  But  whose  is  the  car- 
riage to  be?"  said  Pille-Miche,  thinking  better  of  it. 

"Mine! "  said  Marche-a-Terre,  in  a  terrific  tone  of 
voice,  exhibiting  the  kind  of  superiority  over  all  his 
mates  which  was  given  him  by  his  ferocious  character. 

"But  suppose  there  is  gold  in  the  carriage?" 


*  Balzac  has  put 'some  jargon  in  Pille-Miche's  mouth.  He  is  said  to  have 
written  Les  Chouans  on  the  spot;  but  quicn,  itou,  etc.,  are  not,  I  think,  Breton,  and  are 
suspiciously  identical  with  the  words  jn  the  famous  /Wo/V-scenes  in  Molirre's  Don 
Juan.  —  Translator's  Note. 


212  THE    CHOUANS. 

"Did  you  not  say   'Done?'" 

"Yes,    I  did." 

"Well,  then,  go  and  fetch  the  postilion  who  lies  bound 
in  the  stable." 

"But  suppose  there  is  gold  in — " 

"Is  there?"  asked  Marche-a-Terre  roughly  of  Marie, 
jogging  her  arm. 

"I  have  about  a  hundred  crowns,"  answered  Mile,  de 
Verneuil. 

At  these  words  the  two  Chouans  exchanged  looks. 

"Come,  good  friend,  let  us  not  quarrel  about  a  Blue 
girl,"  whispered  Pille-Miche  to  Marche-a-Terre.  "Let 
us  tip  her  into  the  pond  with  a  stone  round  her  neck,  and 
share  the  hundred  crowns!  " 

"I  will  give  you  them  out  of  my  share  of  D'Orge- 
mont's  ransom,"  cried  Marche-a-Terre,  choking  down  a 
growl  caused  by  this  sacrifice. 

Pille-Miche,  with  a  hoarse  cry  of  joy,  went  to  fetch 
the  postilion,  and  his  alacrity  brought  bad  luck  to  the 
captain,  who  met  him.  When  Marche-a-Terre  heard  the 
shot,  he  rushed  quickly  to  the  spot,  where  Francine, 
still  aghast,  was  praying  by  the  captain's  body,  on  her 
knees  and  with  clasped  hands,  so  much  terror  had  the 
sight  of  the  murder  struck  into  her. 

"Run  to  your  mistress,"  said  the  Chouan  to  her 
abruptly;  "she  is  saved." 

He  himself  hastened  to  fetch  the  postilion,  returned 
with  the  speed  of  lightning,  and,  as  he  passed  again 
by  the  body  of  Merle,  caught  sight  of  the  Gars'  glove 
still  clutched  convulsively  in  the  dead  man's  hand. 

"O  ho!  "  cried  he,  "Pille-Miche  has  struck  a  foul  blow 
there!  He  is  not  sure  of  living  on  his  annuity!"  He 
tore  the  glove  away,  and  said  to  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  who 
had  already  taken  her  place  in  the  coach  by  Francine' s 


A    NOTION   OF    FOUCHfi's.  2  1 5. 

side,  "Here!  take  this  glove.  If  anyone  attacks  you  on 
the  way,  cry  'Oh!  the  Gars!'  show  this  passport,  and  no 
harm  will  happen  to  you.  Francine, "  he  added,  turning  to 
her  and  pressing  her  hand  hard,  "we  are  quits  with  this 
woman.  Come  with  me,  and  let  the  devil  take  her!" 

"You  would  have  me  abandon  her  nqw?"  answered 
Francine,  in  a  sorrowful  tone. 

Marche-a-Terre  scratched  his  ear  and  his  brow;  then 
lifted  his  head  with  a  savage  look  in  his  eyes. 

"You  are  right!  he  said.  "I  will  leave  you  to  her 
for  a  week.  If  after  that  you  do  not  come  with  me — " 
He  did  not  finish  his  sentence,  but  clapped  his  palm 
fiercely  on  the  muzzle  of  his  rifle,  and  after  taking  aim 
at  his  mistress  in  pantomime,  he  made  off  without  wait- 
ing for  a  reply. 

The  Chouan  had  no  sooner  gone  than  a  voice,  which 
seemed  to  come  from  the  pond,  cried  in  a  low  tone, 
"Madame!  madame!  "  The  postilion  and  the  two  women 
shuddered  with  horror,  for  some  corpses  had  floated  up 
to  the  spot.  But  a  Blue,  who  had  been  hidden  behind 
a  tree,  showed  himself. 

"Let  me  get  up  on  your  coach-box,  or  I  am  a  dead  man," 
said  he.  "That  damned  glass  of  ciderx  that  Clef-des- 
Coeurs  would  drink  has  cost  more  than  one  pint  of 
blood!  If  he  had  done  like  me,  and  made  his  rounds, 
our  poor  fellows  would  not  be  there  floating  like  barges." 

While  these  things  went  on  without,  the  chiefs  who 
had  been  delegated  from  La  Vendee,  and  those  of  the 
Chouans,  were  consulting,  glass  in  hand,  under  the 
presidency  of  the  Marquis  of  Montauran.  The  discus- 
sion, which  was  enlivened  by  frequent  libations  of  Bor- 
deaux, became  of  serious  importance  towards  the  end  of 
the  meal.  At  dessert,  when  a  common  plan  of  opera- 
tions had  been  arranged,  the  Royalists  drank  to  the 


214  THE    CHOUANS. 

health  of  the  Bourbons;  and  just  then  Pille  Miche's  shot 
gave,  as  it  were,  an  echo  of  the  ruinous  war  which  these 
gay  and  noble  conspirators  wished  to  make  on  the  Repub- 
Hc.  Madame  du  Gua  started;  and  at  the  motion,  caused 
by  her  delight  at  thinking  herself  relieved  of  her  rival, 
the  company  looked  at  each  other  in  silence,  while  the 
marquis  rose  from  table  and  went  out. 

"After  all,  he  was  fond  of  her,"  said  Madame  du  Gua 
sarcastically.  "Go  and  keep  him  company,  M.  de  Fon- 
taine. He  will  bore  us  to  extinction  if  we  leave  him  to 
his  blue  devils." 

She  went  to  the  window  looking  on  the  court-yard  to 
try  to  see  the  corpse  of  Marie,  and  from  this  point  she 
was  able  to  descry,  by  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  moon, 
the  coach  ascending  the  avenue  with  incredible  speed, 
while  the  veil  of  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  blown  out  by  the 
wind,  floated  from  within  it.  Seeing  this,  Madame  du 
Gua  left  the  meeting  in  a  rage.  The  marquis,  leaning 
on  the  entrance  balustrade,  and  plunged  in  sombre 
thought,  was  gazing  at  about  a  hundred  and  fifty  Chouans, 
who,  having  concluded  the  partition  of  the  booty  in  the 
gardens,  had  come  back  to  finish  the  bread  and  the  cask 
of  cider  promised  to  the  Blues.  These  soldiers  (new 
style),  on  whom  the  hopes  of  the  Monarchy  rested,  were 
drinking  in  knots;  while  on  the  bank  which  faced  the 
entrance  seven  or  eight  of  them  amused  themselves  with 
tying  stones  to  the  corpses  of  the  Blues,  and  throwing  them 
into  the  water.  This  spectacle,  added  to  the  various 
pictures  made  up  by  the  strange  costume  and  savage 
physiognomies  of  the  reckless  and  barbarous  gars,  was  so 
singular  and  so  novel  to  M.  de  Fontaine,  who  had  had 
before  him  in  the  Vendean  troops  some  approach  to 
nobility  and  discipline,  that  he  seized  the  occasion  to 
say  to  the  Marquis  of  Montauran : 


A    NOTION    OF    FOUCHE'S. 


215 


"What  do  you  hope  to  make  of  brutes  like  these?" 

"Nothing  much  you  think,  my  dear  count?"  answered 
the  Gars. 

"Will  they  ever  be  able  to  manoeuvre  in  face  of  the 
Republicans?" 

"Never!  " 

"Will  they  be  able  even  to  comprehend  and  carry  out 
your  orders?" 

"Never!  " 

"Then,  what  good  will  they  do  you?" 

"The  good  of  enabling  me  to  stab  the  Republic  to  the 
heart!  "  answered  the  marquis  in  a  voice  of  thunder. 
"The  good  of  giving  me  Fougeres  in  three  days,  and  all 
Brittany  in  ten!  Come,  sir!  "  he  continued,  in  a  milder 
tone;  "go  you  to  La  Vendee.  Let  d'Autichamp,  Suzan- 
het,  the  Abbe  Bernier,  make  only  as  much  haste  as  I 
do;  let  them  not  treat  with  the  First  Consul,  as  some 
would  have  me  fear;  and,"  he  squeezed  the  Vendean's 
hand  hard,  "in  twenty  days  we  shall  be  within  thirty 
leagues  of  Paris !" 

"But  the  Republic  is  sending  against  us  sixty  thou- 
sand men  and  General  Brunei  " 

"What,  sixty  thousand,  really?"  said  the  marquis  with 
a  mocking  laugh.  "And  what  will  Bonaparte  make  the 
Italian  campaign  with?  As  for  General  Brune,  he  is  not 
coming.  Bonaparte  has  sent  him  against  the  English  in 
Holland;  and  General  Hedouville,  the  friend  of  our 
friend  Barras,  takes  his  place  here.  Do  you  understand 
me?" 

When  he  heard  the  marquis  speak  thus,  M.  de  Fon- 
taine looked  at  him  with  an  arch  and  meaning  air,  which 
seemed  to  reproach  with  not  himself  understanding  the 
hidden  sense  of  the  words  addressed  to  him.  The  two 
gentlemen  from  this  moment  understood  each  other  per- 


2l6  THE    CHOUANS. 

fectly ;  but  the  young  chief  answered  the  thoughts  thus 
expressed  by  looks  with  an  indefinable  smile. 

"M.  de  Fontaine,  do  you  know  my  arms?  Our  motto 
is,  Persevere  unto  death." 

The  count  took  Montauran's  hand,  and  pressed  it,  say- 
ing: "I  was  left  for  dead  at  the  Four-Ways,  so  you  are 
not  likely  to  doubt  me.  But  believe  my  experience: 
times  are  changed." 

"They  are,  indeed,"  said  La  Billardiere,  who  joined 
them;  "you  are  young,  marquis.  Listen  to  me.  Not  all 
your  estates  have  been  sold — 

"Ah!  can  you  conceive  devotion  without  sacrifice?" 
said  Montauran. 

"Do   you  know  the  King  well?"   said  La  Billardiere. 

"I  do." 

"Then,  I  admire  you." 

"King  and  priest  are  one!  "  answered  the  young  chief, 
"and  I  fight  for  the  faith!  " 

They  parted,  the  Vendean  convinced  of  the  necessity 
of  letting  events  take  their  course,  and  keeping  his 
beliefs  in  his  heart;  La  Billardiere  to  return  to  Eng- 
land, Montauran  to  fight  desperately,  and  to  force  the 
Vendeans,  by  the  successes  of  which  he  dreamed,  to  join 
his  enterprises. 

The  course  of  events  had  agitated  Mile,  de  Verneuil's 
soul  with  so  many  emotions  that  she  dropped  exhausted, 
and  as  it  were  dead,  in  the  corner  of  the  carriage,  after 
giving  the  order  to  drive  to  Fougeres.  Francine  imi- 
tated her  mistress'  silence,  and  the  postilion,  who  was 
in  dread  of  some  new  adventure,  made  the  best  of  his 
way  to  the  high  road,  and  .soon  reached  the  summit  of 
the  Pilgrim.  Then  Marie  de  Verneuil  crossed  in  the 
dense  white  fog  of  early  morning  the  beautiful  and  spa- 
cious valley  of  the  Couesnon,  where  our  story  began,  and 


A    NOTION   OF    FOUCHfi'S.  217 


hardly  noticed  from  the  top  of  the  hill  the  schistous 
rock  whereon  is  built  the  town  of  Fougeres,  from  which 
the  travelers  were  still  some  two  leagues  distant.  Her- 
self perished  with  cold,  she  thought  of  the  poor  soldier 


who  was  behind  the  carriage,  and  insisted,  despite  his 
refusals,  on  his  taking  the  place  next  Francine.  The 
sight  of  Fougeres  drew  her  for  a  moment  from  her  rev- 
erie; and  besides,  since  the  guard  at  the  gate  of  Saint 
Leonard  refused  to  allow  unknown  persons  to  enter  the 


2l8  THE    CHOUANS. 

town,  she  was  obliged  to  produce  her  letter  from  the 
Government.  She  found  herself  safe  from  all  hostile 
attempts  when  she  had  entered  the  fortress,  of  which, 
at  the  moment,  its  inhabitants  formed  the  sole  garrison; 
but  the  postilion  could  find  her  no  better  resting-place 
than  the  auberge  de  la  Poste. 

"Madame,"  said  the  Blue  whom  she  had  rescued,  "if 
you  ever  want  a  sabre  cut  administered  to  any  person, 
my  life  is  yours.  I  am  good  at  that.  My  name  is  Jean 
Faucon,  called  Beau-Pied,  sergeant  in  the  first  company 
of  Hulot's  boys,  the  seventy-second  demi-brigade,  sur- 
named  the  Mayen9aise.  Excuse  my  presumption,  but  I 
can  only  offer  you  a  sergeant' s  life,  since,  for  the  moment, 
I  have  nothing  else  to  put  at  your  service."  He  turned 
on  his  heel  and  went  his  way,  whistling. 

"The  lower  one  goes  in  society,"  said  Marie  bitterly, 
"the  less  of  ostentation  one  finds,  and  the  more  of  gener- 
ous sentiment:  a  marquis  returns  me  death  for  life;  a 
sergeant — but  there,  enough  of  this!  " 

When  the  beautiful  Parisian  had  bestowed  herself  in 
a  well -warmed  bed,  her  faithful  Francine  expected,  in 
vain,  her  usual  affectionate  good-night;  but  her  mistress, 
seeing  her  uneasy,  and  still  standing,  made  her  a  sign, 
full  of  sadness: 

"They  call  that  a  day,  Francine!"  she  said.  "I  am  ten 
years  older." 

Next  morning,  as  she  was  getting  up,  Corentin  pre- 
sented himself  to  call  upon  Marie,  who  permitted  him 
to  enter,  saying  to  Francine:  "My  misfortune  must  be 
immense;  for  I  can  even  put  up  with  the  sight  of 
Corentin." 

Nevertheless,  when  she  saw  the  man  once  more,  she  felt 
for  the  thousandth  time  the  instinctive  repugnance  which 
two  years'  acquaintance  had  not  been  able  to  check. 


A   NOTION    OF    FOUCHfc's.  2IQ 

"Well?"  said  he,  with  a  smile;  "I  thought  you  were 
going  to  succeed.  Was  it  not  he  whom  you  had  got 
hold  of?" 

"Corentin,"  she  said  slowly,  with  a  pained  expression, 
"say  nothing  to  me  about  this  matter  till  I  speak  of  it 
myself." 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  casting  sidelong 
looks  at  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  and  trying  to  divine  the  secret 
thoughts  of  this  singular  girl,  whose  glance  was  of  force 
enough  to  disconcert,  at  times,  the  cleverest  men.  'I  fore- 
saw your  defeat,"  he  went  on,  after  a  minute's  silence. 
"If  it  pleases  you  to  make  your  headquarters  in  this  town, 
I  have  already  acquainted  myself  with  matters.  We  are 
in  the  very  heart  of  Chouanism.  Will  you  stay  here?" 

She  acquiesced  with  a  nod  of  the  head,  which  enabled 
Corentin  to  guess  with  partial  truth  the  events  of  the 
night  before. 

"I  have  hired  you  a  house  which  has  been  confiscated, 
but  not  sold.  They  are  much  behindhand  in  this  country, 
and  nobody  dared  to  buy  the  place,  because  it  belongs  to 
an  emigrant  who  passes  for  being  ill-tempered.  It  is 
near  Saint  Leonard's  Church,  and  'pon  honor,*  there  is 
a  lovely  view  from  it.  Something  may  be  done  with  the 
cabin,  which  is  convenient.  Will  you  come  there?" 

"Immediately,"  cried  she. 

"But  I  must  have  a  few  hours  more  to  get  things  clean 
and  in  order,  so  that  y»u  may  find  them  to  your  taste." 

"What  does  it  matter?"  said  she.  "I  could  live,  with- 
out minding  it,  in  a  cloister  or  a  prison.  Nevertheless, 
pray  manage  so  that  I  may  be  able  to  rest  there  this 
evening  in  the  most  complete  solitude.  There!  leave 
me.  Your  presence  is  intolerable.  I  wish  to  be  alone 


*  Corentin  says  ma  paole  d' honneu,  using  the  lisp  which  was  one  of  the  numer- 
ous affectations  of  the  incroyables.—  Translator's  Note. 


220  THE    CHOUANS. 

with  Francine,  with  whom  I  can  perhaps  get   on   better 
than  with  myself.      Farewell!      Go!   do  go!  " 

These  words,  rapidly  spoken,  and  dashed  by  turns  with 
coquetry,  tyranny,  and  passion,  showed  that  she  had 
recovered  complete  tranquillity.  Sleep  had  no  doubt 
slowly  expelled  her  impressions  of  the  day  before,  and 
reflection  determined  her  on  vengeance.  If,  now  and 
then,  some  sombre  thoughts  pictured  themselves  on  her 
face,  they  only  showed  the  faculty  which  some  women 
have  of  burying  the  most  passionate  sentiments  in  their 
souls,  and  the  dissimulation  which  allows  them  to  smile 
graciously  while  they  calculate  a  victim's  doom.  She 
remained  alone,  studying  how  she  could  get  the  marquis 
alive  into  her  hands.  For  the  first  time  she  had  passed 
a  portion  of  her  life  as  she  could  have  wished;  but  noth- 
ing remained  with  her  of  this  episode  but  one  feeling — 
that  of  thirst  for  vengeance,  vengeance  vast  and  complete. 
This  was  her  sole  thought,  her  single  passion.  Fran- 
cine's  words  and  attentions  found  her  dumb.  She  seemed 
to  be  asleep  with  her  eyes  open,  and  the  whole  long  day 
passed  without  her  making  sign,  by  a  single  gesture  or 
action,  of  that  outward  life  which  reveals  our  thoughts. 
She  remained  stretched  on  an  ottoman  which  she  had 
constructed  out  of  chairs  and  pillows.  Only  at  night- 
time did  she  let  fall,  carelessly,  the  following  words, 
looking  at  Francine  as  she  spoke: 

"Child,  I  learned  yesterday  that  one  may  live  for  nothing 
but  love;  and  to-day  I  learn  that  one  may  die  for  nothing 
but  vengeance.  Yes!  to  find  him  wherever  he  may  be, 
to  meet  him  once  more,  to  seduce  him  and  make  him 
mine,  I  would  give  my  life!  But  if  in  the  course  of  a 
few  clays  I  do  not  find,  stretched  at  my  feet  in  abject 
humility,  this  man  who  has  scorned  me — if  I  do  not  make 


A  NOTION  OF    FOUCHfi'S.  221 

him  my  slave — I  shall  be  less  than  nothing — I  shall  be 
no  more  a  woman — I  shall  be  no  more  myself!" 

The  house  which  Corentin  had  suggested  to  Mile,  de 
Verneuil  gave  him  opportunity  enough  to  consult  the 
girl's  inborn  taste  for  luxury  and  elegance.  He  got 
together  everything  which  he  knew  ought  to  please  her, 
with  the  eagerness  of  a  lover  towards  his  mistress,  or, 
better  still,  with  the  obsequiousness  of  a  man  of  impor- 
tance who  is  anxious  to  ingratiate  himself  with  some 
inferior  of  whom  he  has  need.  Next  day  he  came  to 
invite  Mile,  de  Verneuil  to  take  up  her  quarters  in 
these  improvised  lodgings. 

Although  she  did  little  or  nothing  but  change  her 
uncomfortable  ottoman  for  a  sofa  of  antique  pattern 
which  Corentin  had  managed  to  discover  for  her,  the 
fanciful  Parisian  took  possession  of  the  house  as  though 
it  had  been  her  own  property.  She  showed  at  once  a 
royal  indifference  for  everything,  and  a  sudden  caprice 
for  quite  insignificant  objects  of  furniture,  which  she  at 
once  appropriated  as  if  they  had  been  old  favorites; 
traits  common  enough,  but  still  not  to  be  rejected  in 
painting  exceptional  characters.  She  seemed  as  though 
she  had  already  been  familiar  with  this  abode  in 
dreams,  and  she  subsisted  on  hatred  there  as  she  might 
have  subsisted  in  the  same  place  on  love. 

"At  any  rate,"  said  she  to  herself,  "I  have  not  excited 
"n  him  a  feeling  of  the  pity  which  is  insulting  and 
mortal.  I  do  not  owe  him  my  life.  Oh!  first,  sole 
and  last  love  of  mine,  what  an  ending  is  yours!  "  Then 
she  made  a  spring  on  the  startled  Francine.  "Are  you 
in  love?  Yes!  yes!  I  remember  that  you  are.  Ah!  it 
is  lucky  for  me  that  I  have  beside  me  a  woman  who  can 
enter  info  my  feelings.  Well,  my  poor  Francine,  does 
not  man  seem  to  you  a  horrible  creature?  Eh?  He  said 


THE  CHOUANS. 

he  loved  me,  and  he  could  not  stand  the  feeblest  tests. 
Why,  if  the  whole  world  had  repulsed  him,  my  heart 
should  have  been  his  refuge;  if  the  universe  had  accused 
him,  /  would  have  taken  his  part.  Once  upon  a  time  I 
saw  the  world  before  me  full  of  beings  who  went  and 
came,  all  of  them  indifferent  to  me;  it  was  melancholy, 
but  not  odious.  Now,  what  is  the  world  without  him? 
Shall  he  live  without  me  to  be  near  him,  to  see  him,  to 
speak  to  him,  to  feel  him,  to  hold  him — to  hold  him 
fast?  Rather  will  I  butcher  him  myself  as  he  sleeps!  " 

Francine  gazed  at  her  in  horror  and  silence  for  a  min- 
ute. "Kill  the  man  whom  one  loves?"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice. 

"Yes,  when  he  loves  no  longer!" 

But  after  this  terrible  speech  she  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands,  sat  down,  and  was  silent. 

On  the  next  day  a  man  presented  himself  abruptly 
before  her  without  being  announced.  His  countenance 
was  stern.  It  was  Hulot,  and  Corentin  accompanied 
him.  She  raised  her  eyes,  and  shuddered. 

"Have  you  come,"  she  said,  "to  demand  account  of 
your  friends?  They  are  dead!  " 

"I  know  it,"  answered  Hulot;  "but  it  was  not  in  the 
Republic's  service." 

"It  was  for  my  sake,  and  by  my  fault,"  she  replied. 
"You  are  about  to  speak  to  me  of  the  country.  Does 
the  country  restore  life  to  those  who  die  for  her?  Does 
she  even  avenge  them?  I  shall  avenge  these!  "  she 
cried.  The  mournful  image  of  the  catastrophe  of  which 
she  had  been  victim  had  suddenly  risen  before  her,  and 
the  gracious  creature  in  whose  eyes  modesty  was  the  first 
artifice  of  woman  strode  like  a  maniac  with  convulsive 
step  towards  the  astonished  commandant. 

"In  return  for  these  massacred  soldiers  I  will  bring  to 


A   NOTION    OF    FOUCHfi's.  223 

the  axe  of  your  scaffolds  a  head  worth  thousands  cf 
heads!"  she  said.  "Women  are  not  often  warriors;  but 
old  as  you  are,  you  may  learn  some  tricks  of  war  in  my 
school.  I  will  hand  over  to  your  bayonets  his  ancestors 
and  himself,  his  future  and  his  past.  As  I  was  kind 
and  true  to  him,  so  now  I  will  be  treacherous  and  false. 
Yes,  commandant,  I  will  lure  this  young  noble  into 
my  embraces,  and  he  shall  quit  them  only  to  take  his 
death  journey.  I  will  take  care  never  to  have  a  rival. 
The  wretch  has  pronounced  his  own  sentence,  'A  day 
without  a  morrow!'  We  shall  both  be  avenged — your 
Republic  and  I.  Your  Republic!  "  she  continued,  in  a 
voice  whose  strange  variations  of  tone  alarmed  Hulot. 
"But  shall  the  rebel  die  for  having  borne  arms  against 
his  country?  Shall  France  steal  my  vengeance  from  me? 
Nay;  how  small  a  thing  is  life!  One  death  atones  for 
only  one  crime.  Yet,  if  he  has  but  one  life  to  give,  I 
shall  have  some  hours  in  which  to  show  him  that  he  loses 
more  than  one  life.  Above  all,  commandant  (for  you 
will  have  the  killing  of  him),"  and  she  heaved  a  sigh, 
"take  care  that  nothing  betrays  my  treason,  that  he  dies 
sure  of  my  fidelity;  that  is  all  I  ask  of  you.  Let  him 
see  nothing  but  me — me  and  my  endearments!  " 

She  held  her  peace;  but,  flushed  as  was  her  face,  Hulot 
and  Corentin  could  see  that  wrath  and  fury  had  not 
entirely  extinguished  modesty.  Marie  shuddered  vio- 
lently as  she  spoke  the  last  words  ;  they  seemed  to  echo 
in  her  ears  as  if  she  could  not  believe  that  she  had 
uttered  them;  and  she  gave  a  naive  start,  with  the 
involuntary  gesture  of  a  woman  whose  veil  drops. 

"But  you  had  him  in  your  hands!  "  said  Corentin. 

"It  is  very  likely,"  said  she  bitterly. 

"Why  did  you  stop  me  when  I  had  got  him?"  asked 
Hulot. 


224 


THE    CHOUANS. 


"Eh,  commandant?  We  did  not  know  that  it  would 
prove  to  be  he. " 

Suddenly  the  excited  woman,  who  was  pacing  the  room 
hastily,  and  flinging  flaming  glances  at  the  spectators  of 
the  storm,  became  calm. 

"I  had  forgotten  myself,"  she  said,  in  a  masculine  tone. 


"What  is  the  good  of  talking?  We  must  go  and  find 
him. " 

"Go  and  find  him!  "  said  Hulot.  "Take  care,  my  dear 
child,  to  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  We  are  not  masters 
of  the  country  districts,  and  if  you  venture  out  of  the 
town,  you  will  be  killed  or  taken  before  you  have  gone 
a  hundred  yards.  " 

"Those  who  are  eager  for  vengeance  take  no  count  of 


A    NOTION    OF    KOUCHfi'S.  225 

danger,"  she  said,  disdainfully  dismissing  from  her 
presence  the  tow  men,  whose  sight  struck  her  with 
shame. 

"What  a  woman!"  said  Hulot,  as  he  "went  out  with 
Corentin. "^  "What  a  notion  it  was  of  those  police  fel- 
lows in  Paris!  But  she  will  never  give  him  up  to  us," 
he  added,  shaking  his  head. 

"Oh,  yes,  she  will,"  replied  Corentin. 

"Don't  you  see  that  she  loves  him?"  rejoined  Hulot. 

"That  is  exactly  the  reason.  Besides,"  said  Corentin, 
fixing  his  eyes  on  the  astonished  commandant,  "I  am 
here  to  prevent  her  making  a  fool  of  herself;  for  in  my 
opinion,  comrade,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  love  worth 
three  hundred  thousand  francs." 

When  this  diplomatist,  who  did  not  lie  abroad,  left 
the  soldier,  Hulot  gazed  after  him,  and  as  soon  as  he 
heard  the  noise  of  his  step  no  longer,  he  sighed  and  said 
to  himself  : 

"Then  it  is  sometimes  a  lucky  thing  to  be  only  a  fool 
like  me? — God's  thunder!  If  I  meet  the  Gars,  we  will 
fight  it  out  hand  to  hand,  or  my  name  is  not  Hulot;  for 
if  that  fox  there  brought  him  before  me  as  judge,  now 
that  they  have  set  up  courts-martial,  I  should  think  my 
conscience  in  as  sorry  a  case  as  the  shirt  of  a  recruit  who 
is  going  through  his  baptism  of  fire!" 

The  massacre  at  the  Vivetiere,  and  his  own  eager- 
ness to  avenge  his  two  friends,  had  been  as  influential 
in  making  Hulot  resume  command  of  his  demi-brigade 
as  the  answer  in  which  a  new  minister,  Berthier,  had 
assured  him  that  his  resignation  could  not  be  accepted 
under  the  circumstances.  With  the  ministerial  dis- 
patch there  had  come  a  confidential  note,  in  which,  with- 
out informing  him  fully  of  Mile,  de  Verneuil's  mission, 
the  minister  wrote  that  the  incident,  which  lay  quite  out- 
15 


226 


THE    CHOUANS. 


side  warlike  operations,  need  have  no  obstructive  effect 
on  them.  "The  share  of  the  military  leaders  in  this 
matter  should  be  limited,"  said  he,  "to  giving  the  honor- 
able citizeness  such  assistance  as  opportunity  afforded." 
Therefore,  as  it  was  reported  to  him  that  the  Chouan 
movements  indicated  a  concentration  of  their  forces  on 
Fougeres,1  Hulot  had  secretly  brought  up,  by  forced 
marches,  two  battalions  of  his  demi-brigade  to  this 


important  place.  The  danger  his  country  ran,  his  hatred 
of  aristocracy,  whose  partisans  were  threatening  a  great 
extent  of  ground,  and  his  private  friendship,  had  com- 
bined to  restore  to  the  old  soldier  the  fire  of  his  youth. 
"And  this  is  the  life  I  longed  to  lead!"  said  Mile,  de 
Verneuil,  when  she  found  herself  alone  with  Francine. 
"I3e  the  hours  as  s\vift  as  they  may,  they  are  to  me  as 
centuries  in  thought." 


A   NOTION    OF    FOUCHfe's.  227 

Suddenly  she  caught  Francine's  hand,  and  in  atone  like 
that  of  the  robin  which  first  gives  tongue  after  a  storm, 
slowly  uttered  these  words:  "I  cannot  help  it,  child;  I 
see  always  before  me  those  charming  lips,  that  short  and 
gently  upturned  chin,  those  eyes  full  of  fire.  I  hear  the 
'hie-up-  of  the  postilion.  In  short,  I  dream;  and  why, 
when  I  wake  is  my  hatred  so  strong?" 

She  drew  a  long  sigh,  rose,  and  then  for  the  first  time 
bent  her  eyes  on  the  country  whic4i  was  being  delivered 
over  to  civil  war  by  the  cruel  nobleman  whom,  without 
allies,  she  designed  to  attack.  Enticed  by  the  landscape, 
she  went  forth  to  breathe  the  open  air  more  freely,  and  if 
her  road  was  chosen  by  chance,  it  must  certainly  have 
been  by  that  black  magic  of  our  souls  which  makes  us 
ground  our  hopes  on  the  absurd  that  she  was  led  to  the 
public  walks  of  the  town.  The  thoughts  conceived  under 
the  influence  of  this  charm  not  seldom  come  true;  but 
the  foresight  is  then  set  down  to  the  power  which  men 
call  presentiment — a  power  unexplained  but  real,  which 
the  passions  find  always  at  their  service,  like  a  flatterer 
who,  amid  his  falsehoods,  sometimes  speaks  the  truth. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A    DAY  WITHOUT  A   MORROW. 

A  S  the  concluding  events  of  this  history  had  much  to 
**  do  with  the  disposition  of  the  places  in  which  they 
occurred,  it  is  indispensable  to  describe  these  places 
minutely;  for  otherwise  the  catastrophe  would  be  hard  to 
comprehend. 

The  town  of  Fougeres  is  partly  seated  on  a  schistous 
rock,  which  might  be  thought  to  have  fallen  forward 
from  the  hills  inclosing  the  great  valley  of  the  Couesnon  to 
the  west,  and  called  by  different  names  in  different  places. 
In  this  direction  the  town  is  separated  from  these  hills 
by  a  gorge,  at  the  bottom  of  which  runs  a  small  stream 
called  the  Nancon;  the  eastward  side  of  the  rock  looks 
towards  the  same  landscape  which  is  enjoyed  from  the 
summit  of  the  Pilgrim;  and  the  western  commands  no 
view  but  the  winding  valley  of  the  Nancon.  But  ihere  is 
a  spot  whence  it  is  possible  to  take  in  a  segment  of  the 
circle  made  by  the  great  valley,  as  well  as  the  agreeable 
windings  of  the  small  one  which  debouches  into  it.  This 
spot,  which  was  chosen  by  the  inhabitants  for  a  prome- 
nade, and  to  which  Mile,  de  Verneuil  was  making  her 
way,  was  the  precise  stage  on  which  the  drama  begun  at 
the  Vivetiere  was  to  work  itself  out;  and  so,  picturesque 
as  the  other  quarters  of  Fougeres  may  be,  attention  must 
be  exclusively  devoted  to  the  details  of  the  scene  which 
discovers  itself  from  the  upper  part  of  the  promenade. 

In  order  to  give  an  idea  of  the  appearance  which  the 
rock  of  Fougeres  has  when  viewed  from  this  side,  we  may 

228 


A   DAY   WITHOUT  A   MORROW.  22Q 

compare  it  to  one  of  those  huge  towers  round  which 
Saracen  architects  have  wound,  tier  above  tier,  wide 
balconies  connected  with  others  by  spiral  staircases. 
The  rock  culminates  in  a  Gothic  church,  whose  steeple, 
smaller  spirelets,  and  buttresses,  almost  exactly  complete 
the  sugar-loaf  shape.  Before  the  gate  of  this  church, 
which  is  dedicated  to  Saint  Leonard,  there  is  a  small, 
irregularly  shaped  square,  the  earth  of  which  is  held  up 
by  a  wall  thrown  into  the  form  of  a  balustrade,  and  com- 
municating by  a  flight  of  steps  with  the  public  walks. 
This  esplanade  runs  round  the  rock  like  a  second  cornice, 
some  fathoms  below  the  Square  of  Saint  Leonard,  and 
affords  a  wide,  tree-planted  space,  which  abuts  on  the 
fortifications  of  the  town.  Next,  some  score  of  yards 
below  the  walls  and  rocks  which  support  this  terrace 
itself,  due  partly  to  the  chance  lie  of  the  schist,  and 
partly  to  patient  industry,  there  is  a  winding  road  called 
the  Queen's  Staircase,  wrought  in  the  rock,  and  leading 
to  a  bridge  built  over  the  Nan9on  by  Anne  of  Brittany. 
Last  of  all,  under  this  road,  which  holds  the  place  of  a 
third  cornice,  there  are  gardens  descending  in  terraces 
to  the  river  bank,  and  resembling  the  tiers  of  a  stage 
loaded  with  flowers. 

Parallel  to  the  promenade,  certain  lofty  rocks,  which 
take  the  name  of  the  suburb  whence  they  rise,  and  are 
called  the  hills  of  Saint  Sulpice,  stretch  along  the  river, 
and  sink  in  a  gentle  slope  towards  the  great  valley,  wherein 
they  curve  sharply  towards  the  north.  These  rocks,  steep, 
barren,  and  bare,  seem  almost  to  touch  the  schists  of  the 
promenade;  in  some  places  they  come  within  gunshot  of 
them,  and  they  protect  from  the  northerly  winds  a  narrow 
valley  some  hundred  fathoms  deep,  where  the  Nancon, 
split  into  three  arms,  waters  a  meadow  studded  with 
buildings  and  pleasantly  wooded. 


230  THE    CHOUANS. 

Towards  the  south,  at  the  spot  where  the  town,  prop- 
erly so  called,  ends  and  the  Faubourg  Saint  Leonard  begins, 
the  rock  of  Fougeres  makes  a  bend,  grows  less  scarped, 
diminishes  in  height,  and  winds  into  the  great  valley, 
following  the  course  of  the  river,  which  it  thus  pushes 
close  to  the  hills  of  Saint  Sulpice,  and  making  a  narrow 
pass,  whence  the  water  escapes  in  two  channels  and 
empties  itself  into  the  Couesnon.  This  picturesque 
group  of  rocky  heights  is  called  the  Nid-aux-Crocs;  the 
glen  which  it  forms  is  named  the  Valley  of  Gibarry,  and 
its  fat  meadows  supply  a  great  part  of  the  butter  known 
to  epicures  under  the  name  of  Prevalaye  butter. 

At  the  spot  where  the  promenade  abuts  on  the  fortifi- 
cations there  rises  a  tower  called  the  Papegaut's  Tower, 
and  on  the  other  side  of  this  square  building  (on  the 
summit  of  which  is  the  house  where  Mile,  de  Ver- 
neuil  was  lodged),  there  rises  sometimes  a  stretch  of 
wall,  sometimes  the  rock  itself,  when  it  happens  to  pre- 
sent a  sheer  face;  and  the  part  of  the  town  which  is 
seated  on  this  impregnable  and  lofty  pedestal  makes,  as 
it  were,  a  huge  half -moon,  at  the  end  of  which  the  rocks 
bend  and  sweep  away,  to  give  passage  to  the  Nanfon. 
There  lies  the  gate  of  Saint  Sulpice,  leading  to  the 
faubourg  of  the  same  name.  Then,  on  a  granite  tor 
commanding  three  valleys  where  many  roads  meet,  rise 
the  ancient  crenelated  towers  of  the  feudal  castle  of 
Fougeres,  one  of  the  hugest  of  the  buildings  erected  by 
the  dukes  of  Brittany,  with  walls  fifteen  fathoms  high 
and  fifteen  feet  thick.  To  the  east  it  is  defended  by  a 
pond,  whence  issues  the  Nan9on  to  fill  the  moats  and 
turn  the  mills  between  the  draw-bridge  of  the  fortress 
and  the  Porte  Saint  Sulpice;  to  the  west  it  is  protected 
by  tiie  scarped  masses  of  granite  on  which  it  rests. 

Thus    from    the    walks    to    this    splendid    relic    of   the 


A    DAY  WITHOUT   A    MORROW. 


231 


Middle  Ages,  swathed  in  its  cloak  of  ivy  and  decked  out 
with  towers  square  or  round,  in  each  of  which  a  whole 
regiment  could  be  lodged,  the  castle,  the  town,  and  the 
rock  on  which  it  is  built,  all  protected  by  straight  cur- 
tains of  wall  or  scarps  of  rock  dressed  sheer,  make  a 
huge  horseshoe  of  precipices,  on  the  face  of  which,  time 
aiding  them,  the  Bretons  have  wrought  some  narrow 


paths.  Here  and  there  boulders  project  like  ornaments; 
elsewhere  water  drips  from  cracks  out  of  which  issue 
stunted  trees.  Further  off,  slabs  of  granite,  at  a  less 
sharp  angle  than  the  others,  support  grass  which  attracts 
the  goats.  And  everywhere  the  briars,  springing  from 
moist  crevices,  festoon  the  black  and  rugged  surface 
with  rosy  garlands.  At  the  end  of  what  looks  like  a 
huge  funnel  the  little  stream  winds  in  its  meadow  of  per- 
petual greenery,  softly  disposed  like  a  carpet. 


232  THE    CHOUANS. 

At  the  foot  of  the  castle,  and  amidst  some  knolls  of 
granite,  rises  the  church  dedicated  to  Saint  Sulpice, 
which  gives  its  name  to  the  suburb  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Nan$on.  This  suburb,  lying,  as  it  were,  at  the  foot 
of  an  abyss,  with  its  pointed  steeple  far  less  in  height 
than  the  rocks,*  which  seem  about  to  fall  on  the  church 
itself,  and  its  surrounding  hamlet,  are  picturesquely 
watered  by  some  affluents  of  the  Nan£on,  shaded  by  trees 
and  adorned  with  gardens.  These  cut  irregularly  into  the 
half-moon  made  by  the  walks,  the  town,  and  the  castle, 
and  produce  by  their  details  a  graceful  contrast  to  the 
solemn  air  of  the  amphitheatre  which  they  front. 
Finally,  the  whole  of  Fougeres,  with  its  suburbs  and 
churches,  with  the  hills  of  Saint  Sulpice  themselves,  is 
framed  in  by  the  heights  of  Rille,  which  form  part  of 
the  general  fringe  of  the  great  valley  of  the  Couesnon. 

Such  are  the  most  prominent  features  of  this  natural 
panorama,  whose  main  character  is  that  of  savage  wild- 
ness,  softened  here  and  there  by  smiling  passages,  by  a 
happy  mixture  of  the  most  imposing  works  of  man  with 
the  freaks  of  a  soil  tormented  by  unlooked-for  contrasts, 
and  distinguished  by  an  unexpectedness  which  produces 
surprise,  astonishment,  and  almost  confusion.  In  no 
part  of  France  does  the  traveler  see  such  contrasts,  on 
such  a  scale  of  grandeur,  as  those  which  are  offered  by 
the  great  basin  of  the  Couesnon  and  the  valleys  which 
lurk  between  the  rocks  of  Fougeres  and  the  heights  of 
Rille.  These  are  of  the  rare  kind  of  beauties,  where 
chance  is  triumphant,  and  which  yet  lack  none  of  the 
harmonies  of  nature.  Here  are  clear,  limpid,  running 
waters;  mountains  clothed  with  the  luxuriant  vegeta- 
tion of  the  district;  dark  rocks  and  gay  buildings: 


*  The  French  illustrated  text  has  doc  ties,  a   misprint,  and   nonsense.     The  older 
L-ditions  read,  properly,  roches. —  Translator's  Note. 


A   DAY   WITHOUT  A   MORROW.  233 

strongholds  thrown  up  by  nature,  and  granite  towers 
built  by  man;  all  the  tricks  of  light  and  shade,  all  the 
contrasts  between  different  kinds  of  foliage,  in  which 
artists  so  much  delight;  groups  of  houses,  where  an 
active  population  swarms;  and  desert  spaces,  where  the 
granite  will  not  even  tolerate  the  blanched  mosses  which 
are  wont  to  cling  to  stone  — in  short,  all  the  suggestions 
which  can  be  asked  of  a  landscape,  grace  and  terror, 
poetry  full  of  ever  new  magic,  sublime  spectacles, 
charming  pastorals.  Brittany  is  there  in  full  flower. 

The  tower  called  the  Papegaut's  Tower,  on  which  the 
house  occupied  by  Mile,  de  Verneuil  stands,  springs  from 
the  very  bottom  of  the  precipice  and  rises  to  the  staircase 
which  runs  cornice-wise  in  front  of  Saint  Leonard's 
Church.  From  this  house,  which  is  isolated  on  three 
sides,  the  eye  takes  in  at  once  the  great  horseshoe, 
which  starts  from  the  tower  itself,  the  winding  glen  of 
the  Nancon,  and  Saint  Leonard's  Square.  It  forms  part 
of  a  range  of  buildings,  three  centuries  old,  built  of  wood, 
and  lying  parallel  to  the  north  side  of  the  church,  with 
which  they  make  a  blind  alley,  opening  on  a  sloping 
street  which  skirts  the  church  and  leads  to  the  gate  of 
Saint  Leonard,  towards  which  Mile,  de  Verneuil  was 
now  descending. 

Marie  naturally  did  not  think  of  going  into  the  square 
in  front  of  the  church,  below  which  she  found  herself, 
but  bent  her  steps  towards  the  walks.  She  had  no 
sooner  passed  the  little  green  gate  in  front  of  the  guard, 
which  was  then  established  in  Saint  Leonard's  gate 
tower,  than  her  emotions  were  at  once  subdued  to  silence 
by  the  splendor  of  the  view.  She  first  admired  the  great 
section  of  the  Couesnon  Valley,  which  her  eyes  took  in 
from  the  top  of  the  Pilgrim  to  the  plateau  over  which 
passes  the  Vitrj  road.  Then  she  rested  them  on  the 


234  THE    CHOUANS. 

Nid-au-Crocs  and  the  windings  of  the  Gibarry  Glen,  the 
crests  of  which  were  bathed  by  the  misty  light  of  the 
setting  sun.  She  was  almost  startled  at  the  depth  of  the 
Nan£on  Valley,  whose  tallest  poplars  scarcely  reached 
the  garden  walks  underneath  the  Queen's  Staircase.  One 
surprise  after  another  opened  before  her  as  she  went, 
until  she  reached  a  point  whence  she  could  perceive 
both  the  great  valley  across  the  Gibarry  Glen  and  the 
charming  landscape  framed  by  the  horseshoe  of  the 
town,  by  the  rocks  of  Saint  Sulpice,  and  by  the  heights 
of  Rill£.  At  this  hour  of  the  day  the  smoke  from  the 
houses  in  the  suburb  and  the  valleys  made  a  kind  of 
cloud  in  the  air,  which  only  allowed  objects  to  be  visi- 
ble as  if  through  a  bluish  canopy.  The  garish  tints  of 
\iay  began  to  fade;  the  firmament  became  pearl-gray  in 
cVlor;  the  moon  threw  her  mantle  of  light  over  the  beau- 
tiful abyss,  and  the  whole  scene  had  a  tendency  to 
plunge  the  soul  into  reverie,  and  help  it  to  call  up 
beloved  images.  Of  a  sudden  she  lost  all  interest  in 
the  shingled  roofs  of  the  Faubourg  Saint  Sulpice,  in  the 
church,  whose  aspiring  steeple  is  lost  in  the  depths  of 
the  valley,  in  the  hoary  draperies  of  ivy  and  clematis 
that  clothe  the  walls  of  the  old  fortress,  across  which 
the  Nan$on  boils  under  the  mill-wheels,  in  the  whole 
landscape.  The  setting  sun  in  vain  flung  gold  dust  and 
sheets  of  crimson  on  the  pretty  houses  scattered  about 
the  rocks,  by  the  waters,  and  in  the  meadows,  for  she 
remained  gazing  motionless  at  the  cliffs  of  Saint  Sul- 
pice. The  wild  hope  which  had  led  her  to  the  walks 
had  miraculously  come  true.  Across  the  ajoncs  and  the 
broom  that  grew  on  the  opposite  heights  she  thought 
she  could  distinguish,  despite  their  goatskin  garments, 
several  of  the  guests  at  the  Vivetiere.  The  Gars,  whose 
least  movements  stood  out  against  the  soft  light  of  sun- 


A   DAY   WITHOUT  A   MORROW.  335 

set,  was  particularly  conspicuous.  A  few  paces  behind 
the  principal  group  she  saw  her  formidable  foe,  Madame 
du  Gua.  For  an  instant  Mile,  de  Verneuil  thought  she 
must  be  dreaming,  but  her  rival's  hate  soon  gave  her 
proof  that  the  dream  was  alive.  Her  rapt  attention  to 
the  marquis' slightest  gesture  prevented  her  from  observ- 
ing that  Madame  du  Gua  was  carefully  taking  aim  at  her 
with  a  long  fowling-piece.  Soon  a  gunshot -woke  the 
echoes  of  the  mountain,  and  the  bullet  whistling  close 
to  Marie  showed  her  her  rival's  skill. 

"She  leaves  her  card  upon  me!  "  said  she  to  herself, 
with  a  smile. 

At  the  same  moment  numerous  cries  of  "Who  goes 
there?"  resounded  from  sentinel  to  sentinel,  from  the 
castle  to  the  gate  of  Saint  Leonard,  and  warned  the 
Chouans  of  the  watchfulness  of  the  men  of  Fougeres, 
inasmuch  as  the  least  vulnerable  part  of  their  ramparts 
was  so  well  guarded. 

'Tis  she;  and  'tis  he!"  thought  Marie.  To  go  and 
seek  the  marquis,  to  follow  him,  to  surprise  him,  were 
thoughts  which  came  to  her  like  flashes  of  lightning. 
"But  I  am  unarmed!"  she  cried,  and  she  remembered 
that  at  the  time  of  leaving  Paris  she  had  put  in  one  of 
her  boxes  an  elegant  dagger,  which  had  once  been  worn 
by  a  sultana,  and  with  which  she  chose  to  provide  her- 
self on  her  way  to  the  seat  of  war,  like  those  pleasant 
folk  who  equip  themselves  with  note-books  to  receive 
their  impressions  of  travel.  But  she  had  then  been  less 
induced  by  the  prospect  of  having  blood  to  shed,  than 
by  the  pleasure  of  wearing  a  pretty  gemmed  kandjar, 
and  of  playing  with  its  blade,  as  clear  as  the  glance  of 
an  eye.  Three  days  earlier,  when  she  had  longed  to  kill 
herself  in  order  to  escape  the  horrible  punishment  which 
her  rival  designed  for  her,  she  had  bitterly  regretted 


236  THE    CHOUANS. 

having  left  this  weapon  in  her  box.  She  quickly  went 
home,  found  the  dagger,  stuck  it  in  her  belt,  drew  a  large 
shawl  close  round  her  shoulders  and  waist,  wrapped  her 
hair  in  a  black  lace  mantilla,  covered  her  head  with  a 
flapping  Chouan  hat  belonging  to  one  of  the  servants, 
and,  with  the  presence  of  mind  which  passion  some- 
times lends,  took  the  marquis'  glove  which  Marche-a- 
Terre  had.  given  her  for  a  passport.  Then,  replying  to 
Francine's  alarms,  "What  would  you  have?  I  would 
go  to  seek  him  in  hell!  "  she  returned  to  the  promenade. 
The  Gars  was  still  on  the  same  spot,  but  alone.  Judg- 
ing from  the  direction  of  his  telescope,  he  appeared  to 
be  examining  with  a  soldier's  careful  scrutiny  the  differ- 
ent crossings  over  the  Nan9on,  the  Queen's  Staircase, 
and  the  road  which,  starting  from  the  gate  of  Saint 
Sulpice,  winds  past  the  church  and  joins  the  highway 
under  the  castle  guns.  Mile,  de  Verneuil  slipped  into 
the  by-paths  traced  by  the  goats  and  their  herds  on  the 
slopes  of  the  promenade,  reached  the  Queen's  Stair- 
case, arrived  at  the  bottom  of  the  cliff,  crossed  the 
Nan£on,  and  traversed  the  suburb.  Then  guessing,  like 
a  bird  in  the  desert,  her  way  across  the  dangerous  scarps 
of  the  Saint  Sulpice  crags,  she  soon  gained  a  slippery 
path  traced  over  granite  blocks,  and  in  spite  of  the 
broom,  the  prickly  ajoncs,  and  the  screes  with  which  it 
bristled,  she  set  herself  to  climb  it  with  a  degree  of 
energy  which  it  may  be  man  never  knows,  but  which 
woman,  when  hurried  on  by  passion,  may  for  a  time 
possess.  Night  overtook  her  at  the  moment  when,  hav- 
ing reached  the  summit,  she  was  looking  about,  by  help 
of  the  pale  moon's  rays,  for  the  road  which  the  marquis 
must  have  taken.  Persevering  but  fruitless  explorations, 
and  the  silence  which  prevailed  in  the  country,  showed 
her  that  the  Chouans  and  their  chief  had  withdrawn 


A   DAY   WITHOUT   A   MORROW.  237 

The  exertion  which  passion  had  enabled  her  to  make 
flagged  with  the  hope  which  had  inspired  it.  Finding 
herself  alone,  benighted,  and  in  the  midst  of  a  country 
unknown  to  her  and  beset  by  war,  she  began  to  reflect; 
and  Hulot's  warning  and  Madame  du  Gua's  shot  made 
her  shudder  with  fear.  The  stillness  of  night,  so  deep 
on  the  hills,  allowed  her  to  hear  the  smallest  falling  leaf 
even  a  great  way  off,  and  such  slight  noises  kept  vibrat- 
ing in  the  air  as  though  to  enable  her  to  take  sad  meas- 
ure of  the  solitude  and  the  silence.  In  the  upper  sky 
the  wind  blew  fresh,  and  drove  the  clouds  violently 
before  it,  producing  waves  of  shadow  and  light,  the 
effects  of  which  increased  her  terror  by  giving  a  fantastic 
and  hideous  appearance  to  the  most  harmless  objects. 
She  turned  her  eyes  to  the  houses  of  Fougeres,  whose 
homely  lights  burned  like  so  many  earthly  stars;  and 
suddenly  she  had  a  distinct  view  of  the  Papegaut's 
Tower.  The  distance  which  she  must  travel  in  order  to 
return  to  it  was  nothing;  but  the  road  was  a  precipice. 
She  had  a  good  enough  memory  of  the  depths  bordering 
the  narrow  path  by  which  she  had  come  to  know  that  she 
was  in  more  danger  if  she  retraced  her  steps  to  Fougeres 
than  if  she  pursued  her  adventure.  The  thought  occurred 
to  her  that  the  marquis'  glove  would  free  her  night  walk 
from  all  danger  if  the  Chouans  held  the  country;  her 
only  formidable  foe  was  Madame  du  Gua.  As  she 
thought  of  her,  Marie  clutched  her  dagger,  and  tried  to 
make  her  way  towards  a  house  whose  roof  she  had  seen 
by  glimpses  as  she  reached  the  crags  of  Saint  Sulpice. 
But  she  made  slow  progress,  for  the  majestic  gloom 
which  weighs  on  a  being  who  is  alone  in  the  night  in 
the  midst  of  a  wild  district,  where  lofty  mountain-tops 
bow  their  heads  on  all  sides,  like  a  meeting  of  giants, 
was  new  to  her. 


238  THE    CHOUANS. 

The  rustle  of  her  dress  caught  by  the  ajoncs  made  her 
start  more  than  once,  and  more  than  once  she  hurried, 
slackening  her  pace  again  as  she  thought  that  her  last 
hour  was  come.  But  before  long  the  surroundings  took  a 
character  to  which  the  boldest  men  might  have  succumbed, 
and  threw  Mile,  de  Verneuil  into  one  of  those  panics 
which  bear  so  hardly  on  the  springs  of  life,  that  every- 
thing, strength  or  weakness,  takes  a  touch  of  exaggera- 
tion in  different  individuals.  At  such  times  the  feeblest 
show  an  extraordinary  strength,  and  the  strongest  go 
mad  with  terror.  Marie  heard,  at  a  short  distance,  curi- 
ous noises,  at  once  distinct  and  confused,  just  as  the 
night  was  at  once  dark  and  clear.  They  seemed  to  show 
alarm  and  tumult,  the  ear  straining  itself  in  vain  to 
comprehend  them.  They  rose  from  the  bosom  of  the 
earth,  which  seemed  shaken  under  the  feet  of  a  vast  multi- 
tude of  men  marching.  An  interval  of  light  allowed 
Mile,  de  Verneuil  to  see,  a  few  paces  from  her,  a  long 
file  of  ghastly  figures,  swaying  like  ears  in  a  corn-field, 
and  slipping  along  like  ghosts,  but  she  could  only  just 
see  them,  for  the  darkness  fell  again  like  a  black  curtain, 
and  hid  from  her  a  terrible  picture  full  of  yellow,  flash- 
ing eyes.  She  started  briskly  backwards  and  ran  to  the 
top  of  a  slope,  so  as  to  escape  three  of  the  terrible 
shapes  who  were  coming  towards  her. 

"Did  you  see  him?"  asked  one. 

I  felt  a  cold  blast  as  he  passed  near  me,"  answered  a 
hoarse  voice. 

"For  me,  I  breathed  the  damp  air  and  smell  of  a  grave- 
yard," said  the  third. 

"Was  he  white?"  went  on  the  first. 

"Why,"   said  the  second,    "did  he  alone    of    all    those 
who  fell  at  the  Pilgrim  come  back?" 

"Why,"   said  the  third,   "why  are  those  who  belong  to 


A    DAY   WITHOUT   A    MORROW.  239 

the  Sacred  Heart  made  favorites?  For  my  part,  I  would 
rather  die  without  confession  than  wander  as  he  does, 
without  eating  or  drinking,  without  blood  in  his  veins 
or  flesh  on  his  bones." 

"Ah!" 

This  exclamation,  or  rather  cry  of  horror,  burst  from 
the  group  as  one  of  the  three  Chouans  pointed  out  the 
slender  form  and  pale  face  of  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  who 
fled  with  terrifying  speed,  and  without  their  hearing  the 
least  noise. 

"He  is  there!"  "He  is  here!"  "Where  is  he?" 
"There!"  "Here!"  "He  is  gone!"  "No!"  "Yes!" 
"Do  you  see  him?"  The  words  echoed  like  the  dull  plash 
of  waves  on  the  shore. 

Mile,  de  Verneuil  stepped  boldly  out  in  the  direction 
of  the  house,  and  saw  the  indistinct  forms  of  a  multi- 
tude of  persons  who  fled,  as  she  approached,  with  signs  of 
panic  terror.  It  was  as  though  she  was  carried  along  by 
an  unknown  power,  whose  influence  was  too  much  for 
her;  and  the  lightness  of  her  body,  which  seemed  inex- 
plicable, became  a  new  subject  of  alarm  to  herself. 
These  forms,  which  rose  in  masses  as  she  came  near, 
and  as  if  they  came  from  beneath  the  ground  where  they 
appeared  to  be  stretched,  uttered  groans  which  were 
not  in  the  least  human.  At  last  she  gained,  with  some 
difficult}7,  a  ruined  garden  whose  hedges  and  gates  were 
broken  through.  She  was  stopped  by  a  sentinel  ;  but 
she  showed  him  her  glove,  and,  as  the  moonlight  shone  on 
her  face,  the  rifle  dropped  from  the  Chouan's  hands 
as  he  leveled  it  at  Marie,  and  he  uttered  the  same 
hoarse  cry  which  was  echoing  all  over  the  country.  She 
could  see  a  large  range  of  buildings  where  some  lights 
ndicated  inhabited  rooms,  and  she  reached  the  walls 
without  finding  any  obstacle.  Through  the  very  first 


240  THE   CHOUANS. 

window  to  which  she  bent  her  steps,  she  saw  Madame 
dii  Gua  with  the  chiefs  who  had  been  assembled  at  the 
Vivetiere.  Losing  her  self-command,  partly  at  the  sight, 
parti}'  through  her  sense  of  danger,  she  flung  herself 
sharply  back  on  a  small  opening  guarded  by  thick  iron 
bars,  and  distinguished,  in  a  long  vaulted  apartment, 
the  marquis,  alone,  melancholy,  and  close  to  her.  The 
reflections  of  the  fire,  before  which  he  was  sitting  in  a 
clumsy  chair,  threw  on  his  face  ruddy  flickers  which 
gave  the  whole  scene  the  character  of  a  vision.  Trem- 
bling, but  otherwise  motionless,  the  poor  girl  clung 
close  to  the  bars,  and  in  the  deep  silence  which  pre- 
vailed she  hoped  to  hear  him  if  he  spoke.  As  she  saw 
him  dejected,  discouraged,  pale,  she  flattered  herself 
that  she  was  one  of  the  causes  of  his  sadness.  And 
then  her  wrath  changed  to  pity,  her  pity  to  affection; 
and  she  felt  all  of  a  sudden  that  what  had  brought  her 
there  was  not  merely  vengeance.  The  marquis  turned 
his  head  and  stood  aghast  as  he  saw,  as  if  in  a  cloud, 
the  face  of  Mile,  cle  Verneuil;  he  let  slip  a  gesture  of 
scorn  and  impatience  as  he  cried,  "Must  I,  then,  see  this 
she-devil  always,  even  when  I  am  awake?" 

The  profound  disdain  which  he  had  conceived  for  her 
drew  from  the  poor  girl  a  frenzied  laugh,  which  made 
the  young  chief  start;  he  darted  to  the  casement,  and 
Mile,  de  Verneuil  fled.  She  heard  close  behind  her  the 
steps  of  a  man  whom  she  thought  to  be  Montauran;  and 
in  order  to  escape  him,  nothing  seemed  to  her  an  obstacle. 
She  could  have  scaled  walls  and  flown  in  the  air,  she 
could  have  taken  the  road  to  hell  itself,  in  order  to  avoid 
reading  once  more  in  letters  of  fire  the  words  "He 
despises  you!"  which  were  written  on  the  man's  fore- 
head, and  which  her  inner  vcice  shouted  to  her,  as  she 
went,  with  trumpet  sound.  After  going  she  knew  not 


A   DAY   WITHOUT   A   MORROW.  24! 

whither,  she  stopped,  feeling  a  damp  air  penetrate  her 
being.  Frightened  at  the  steps  of  more  persons  lhan 
one,  and  urged  by  fear,  she  ran  down  a  staircase  which 
led  her  to  the  bottom  of  a  cellar.  When  she  had 
reached  the  lowest  step  she  hearkened,  trying  to  distin- 
guish the  direction  which  her  pursuers  were  taking;  but 
though  there  was  noise  enough  outside,  she  could  hear 
the  doleful  groanings  of  a  human  voice,  which  added  to 
her  terror.  A  flash  of  light  which  came  from  the  top 
of  the  stair  made  her  fear  that  her  persecutors  had  dis- 
covered her  retreat ;  and  her  desire  to  escape  them  gave  her 
new  strength.  She  could  not  easily  explain  to  herself, 
when  shortly  afterwards  she  collected  her  thoughts,  in 
what  way  she  had  been  able  to  climb  upon  the  dwarf 
wall  where  she  had  hidden  herself.  She  did  not  even  at 
first  perceive  the  cramped  position  which  the  attitude  of 
her  body  inflicted  on  her.  But  the  cramp  became  unbear- 
able before  long;  for  she  looked,  under  a  vaulted  arch, 
like  a  statue  of  the  ciouching  Venus  stuck  by  an  ama- 
teur in  too  narrow  a  niche.  The  wall,  which  was  pretty 
wide  and  built  of  granite,  formed  a  partition  between 
the  stairway  itself  and  a  cellar  from  whence  the  groans 
came.  Soon  she  saw  a  man  whom  she  did  not  know, 
covered  with  goatskins,  descending  beneath  her,  and  turn- 
ing under  the  vaulting  without  giving  any  sign  of  hasty 
search.  Impatient  to  know  whether  any  chance  of  safety 
would  present  itself,  Mile,  de  Verneuil  anxiously 
waited  for  the  light  which  the  stranger  carried  to  lighten 
the  cellar,  on  whose  floor  she  perceived  a  shapeless  but 
living  heap,  .which  was  making  endeavors  to  reach  a  cer- 
tain part  of  the  wall  by  a  violent  succession  of  move- 
ments, resembling  the  irregular  writhings  of  a  carp 
stranded  on  the  bank.  A  small  torch  of  resin  soon 
diffused  its  bluish  and  uncertain  light  in  the  cellar. 
16 


242  THE    CHOUANS. 

Despite  the  romantic  gloom  which  Mile,  de  Verneuil's 
imagination  shed  upon  the  vaults  as  they  reechoed  the 
sounds  of  dolorous  supplication,  she  could  not  help 
perceiving  the  plain  fact  that  she  was  in  an  underground 
kitchen,  long  disused.  When  the  light  was  thrown  upon 
the  shapeless  heap,  it  became  a  short  and  very  fat  man, 
whose  limbs  had  all  been  carefully  tied,  but  who 
seemed  to  have  been  left  on  the  damp  flags  without 
further  attention  by  those  who  had  seized  him.  At 
sight 'of  the  stranger,  who  held  the  torch  in  one  hand 
and  a  fagot  in  the  other,  the  prisoner  muttered  a  deep 
groan,  which  had  so  powerful  an  effect  on  Mile,  de  Ver- 
neuil's feelings  that  she  forgot  her  own  terror,  her  de- 
spair, and  the  horrible  cramped  position  of  her  limbs, 
which  were  stiffening  from  being  doubled  up.  She  did 
all  she  could  to  remain  motionless.  The  Chouan  threw 
his  fagot  into  the  fire-place  after  trying  the  strength 
of  an  old  pot-hook  and  chain  which  hung  down  a  tall 
iron  fire-back,  and  lighted  the  wood  with  his  torch.  It 
was  not  without  terror  that  Mile,  de  Verneuil  then  recog- 
nized the  cunning  Pille-Miche,  to  whom  her  rival  had 
delivered  her  up,  and  whose  face,  with  the  flame  flicker- 
ing on  it,  resembled  the  grotesque  manikins  that  the 
Germans  carve  in  boxwood.  The  wail  which  had  escaped 
the  captive  brought  a  huge  smile  on  his  countenance, 
which  was  furrowed  with  wrinkles  and  tanned  by  the  sun. 
"You  see,"  he  said  to  the  victim,  "that  Christians 
like  us  do  not  break  their  word  as  you  do.  The  fire 
here  will  take  the  stiffness  out  of  your  legs,  and  your 
hands,  and  your  tongue.  But  there!  there!  I  can't  see 
a  dripping-pan  to  put  under  your  feet:  they  are  so 
plump,  they  might  put  the  fire  out.  Your  house  must 
be  very  ill  furnished  that  a  man  cannot  find  wherewithal 
to  serve  its  master  properly  when  he  warms  himself!" 


A   DAY  WITHOUT  A   MORROW. 


243 


The  sufferer  uttered  a  sharp  yell,  as  if  he  hoped  to 
make  himself  heard  outside  the  vaults,  and  bring  a 
deliverer. 

"Oh!  you  can  sing  to 
your  heart's  content, 
Monsieur  d'Orgemont! 
They  have  all  gone  to 
bed  upstairs,  and  Marche- 
a-Terre  is  coming  after 
me.  He  will  shut  the 
cellar  door." 

As  he  spoke,  Pille- 
Miche  sounded  with  his 


put  his  gold. 


rifle-butt  the 
chimney- 
piece,  the 
flags  that 
paved  the 
kitchen  floor, 
the  walls,  and 
the  stoves,  to 
try  and  find 
the  hiding- 
place  where 
•frL.,11.  the  miser  had 

The  search  was  conducted  with  such  skill 


244  THE    CHOUANS. 

that  d'Orgemont  held  his  breath,  as  if  he  feared  to  have 
been  betrayed  by  some  frightened  servant;  for,  though 
he  had  not  made  a  confidant  of  anyone,  his  ways  of  life 
might  have  given  occasion  to  shrewd  inferences.  From 
time  to  time  Pille-Miche  turned  sharply  round  to  look 
at  his  victim,  as  if  he  were  playing  the  children's  game 
where  they  try  to  guess,  by  the  unguarded  expression  of 
someone  who  has  hidden  a  given  object,  whether  they  are 
"warm"  or  "cold. "  D'  Orgemont  pretended  a  certain  terror 
as  he  saw  the  Chouan  striking  the  stoves,  which  returned  a 
hollow  sound,  and  seemed  to  wish  thus  to  amuse  Pille- 
Miche' s  credulous  greed  for  a  time.  At  that  moment 
three  other  Chouans,  plunging  into  the  staircase,  made 
their  appearance  suddenly  in  the  kitchen. 

"Marie  Lambrequin  has  come  alive  again!"  said 
Marche-a-Terre,  with  a  look  and  gesture  which  showed 
that  all  other  matters  of  interest  grew  trifling  beside 
such  important  news. 

"I  am  not  surprised  at  that,"  answered  Pille-Miche. 
"He  used  to  take  the  communion  so  often!  You  would 
have  thought  that  le  bon  Dieu  was  his  private  property." 

"Yes!  But,"  said  Mene-a-Bien,  "that  did  him  as 
much  good  as  shoes  do  to  a  dead  man.  It  seems  he  had 
not  received  absolution  before  the  affair  at  the  Pilgrim; 
he  had  played  the  fool  with  Goguelu's  girl,  and  thus 
was  caught  in  mortal  sin.  So  Abb£  Gudin  says  that  he 
will  have  to  wait  for  two  months  as  a  ghost  before  com- 
ing back  really  and  truly.  We  all  of  us  saw  him  pass 
before  us — pale,  and  cold,  and  unsubstantial,  and  smell- 
ing of  the  graveyard." 

"And  his  reverence  says,  that  if  the  ghost  can  get  hold 
of  anyone,  he  will  carry  him  off  as  his  mate,"  added  the 
fourth  Chouan.  This  last  speaker's  grotesque  figure 
distracted  Marche-a-Terre  from  the  religious  musings 


A   DAY   WITHOUT  A   MORROW.  245 

into  which  he  had  been  plunged  by  a  miracle,  which, 
according  to  Abbe  Gudin,  fervent  faith  might  repeat 
for  the  benefit  of  every  pious  defender  of  church  and 
king. 

"You  see,  Galope-Chopine, "  said  he  to  the  neophyte, 
with  some  gravity,  "what  are  the  consequences  of  the 
slightest  shortcoming  in  the  duties  ordered  by  our  holy 
religion.  Saint  Anne  of  Auray  bids  us  have  no  mercy 
for  the  smallest  faults  among  ourselves.  Your  cousin 
Pille-Miche  has  begged  for  you  the  place  of  overseer  of 
Fougeres;  the  Gars  consents  to  intrust  you  with  it,  and 
you  will  be  well  paid.  But  you  know  what  meal  we 
bake  traitor's  cake  of?" 

"Yes,  Master  Marche-a-Terre. " 

"And  you  know  why  I  say  this  to  you?  There  are  peo- 
ple who  say  that  you  are  too  fond  of  cider  and  of  big 
penny-pieces.  But  you  must  not  try  to  make  pickings; 
you  must  stick  to  us,  and  us  only." 

"Saving  your  reverence,  Master  Marche-a-Terre,  cider 
and  penny-pieces  are  two  good  things,  which  do  not 
hinder  a  man  from  saving  his  soul." 

"If  my  cousin  makes  any  mistake,"  said  Pille-Miche, 
"it  will  only  be  through  ignorance." 

"No  matter  how  a  misfortune  comes,"  cried  Marche-a- 
Terre,  in  a  voice  which  made  the  vault  quiver,  "I  shall 
not  miss  him.  You  will  be  surety  for  him,"  he  added, 
turning  to  Pille-Miche;  "for  if  he  does  wrong  I  shall 
ask  an  account  of  it  at  the  lining  of  your  goatskins." 

"But,  ask  your  pardon,  Master  Marche-a-Terre, "  replied 
Galope-Chopine,  "has  it  not  happened  to  you  more  than 
once  to  believe  that  Anti-Chf/my  are  Cht/ins?" 

"My  friend,"  said  Marche-a-Terre  dryly,  "don't  make 
that  mistake  again,  or  I  will  sliver  you  like  a  turnip. 
As  for  the  messengers  of  the  Gars,  they  'will  have  his 


246  THE    CHOUANS. 

glove;  but  since  that  business  at  the  Vivetiere  the 
Grande-Garce  puts  a  green  ribbon  in  it." 

Pille-Miche  jogged  his  comrade's  elbow  sharply,  point- 
ing to  d'Orgemont,  who  pretended  to  be  asleep;  but 
both  Marche-a-Terre  and  Pille-Miche  himself  knew  by 
experience  that  nobody  had  yet  gone  to  sleep  at  their 
fireside.  And  though  the  last  words  to  Galope-Chopine 
had  been  spoken  in  a  low  tone,  since  the  victim  might 
have  understood  them,  the  four  Chouans  all  stared  at 
him  for  a  moment,  and  no  doubt  thought  that  fear  had 
deprived  him  of  the  use  of  his  senses.  Suddenly,  at  a 
slight  sign  from  Marche-a-Terre,  Pille-Miche  took  off 
d'Orgemont's  shoes  and  stockings,  Mene-a-Bien  and 
Galope-Chopine  seized  him  round  the  body  and  carried 
him  to  the  fire.  Then  Marche-a-Terre  himself  took  one 
of  the  cords  that  had  bound  the  fagot  and  tied  the 
miser's  feet  to  the  pot-hook.  These  combined^  proceed- 
ings, and  their  incredible  swiftness,  made  the  victim 
utter  cries  which  became  heartrending  when  Pille-Miche 
brought  the  coals  together  under  his  legs. 

"My  friends!  my  good  friends!"  cried  d'Orgemont: 
"you  will  hurt  me!  I  am  a  Christian  like  yourselves!  " 

"You  lie  in  your  throat! "  answered  Marche-a-Terre. 
"Your  brother  denied  God.  As  for  you,  you  bought 
Juvigny  Abbey.  Abbe  Gudin  says  that  we  need  feel  no 
scruple  as  to  roasting  renegades." 

"But,  brethren  in  God,  1  do  not  refuse  to  pay  you." 

"We  gave  you  a  fortnight.  Two  months  have  passed, 
and  here  is  Galope-Chopine,  who  has  not  received  a 
farthing." 

"You  received  nothing,  Galope-Chopine?"  asked  the 
miser  despairingly. 

"Nothing,  Monsieur  d'Orgemont,"  answered  Galope- 
Chopine.  alarmed. 


A   DAY   WITHOUT  A   MORROW. 


247 


The  yells,  which  had  changed  into  a  continuous  growl, 
like  a  man's  death-rattle,  began  again  with  unheard-of 
violence,  but  the  four  Chouans,  as  much  used  to  this 
spectacle  as  they  were  to  seeing  their  dogs  walk  without 
shoes,  gazed  so  coolly  at  d'Orgemont  as  he  writhed  and 


howled,  that  they  looked  like  travelers  waiting  by  an 
inn  fire  till  the  roast  was  done  enough  to  eat. 

"I  am  dying!  I  am  dying!"  said  the  victim,  "and 
you  will  not  get  my  money!  " 

Despite  the  energy  of  the  yells,  Pille-Miche  noticed 
that  the  fire  had  not  yet  caught  the  skin;  and  they  poked 


248  THE    CHOUANS. 

the  coals  very  artistically,  so  as  to  make  them  blaze  up  a 
little,  whereat  d'Orgemont  said  in  a  broken  voice: 

"My  friends!  Unbind  me.  .  .  .  What  do  you  want? 
A  hundred  crowns?  A  thousand?  Ten  thousand?  A 
hundred  thousand?  I  offer  two  hundred  crowns!" 

The  voice  was  so  pitiful  that  Mile,  de  Verneuil  forgot 
her  own  danger  and  allowed  an  exclamation  to  escape  her. 

"Who  spoke?"  asked  Marche-a-Terre. 

The  Chouans  cast  startled  glances  round  them;  for, 
brave  as  they  were  before  the  deadly  mouths  of  guns, 
they  could  not  stand  a  ghost.  Pille-Miche  alone  lis- 
tened with  undistracted  attention  to  the  confession  which 
increasing  pain  wrung  from  his  victim. 

"Five  hundred  crowns?  .  .  .  Yes!  I  will  give  them!" 
said  the  miser. 

"Bah  !     Where  are  they?"  observed  Pille-Miche  calmly. 

"What?  They  are  under  the  first  apple-tree.  .  .  . 
Holy  Virgin!  At  the  end  of  the  garden — on  the  left. 
.  .  .  You  are  brigands!  robbers!  Ah!  I  am  dying. 
.  .  .  There  are  ten  thousand  francs  there ! " 

"I  won't  have  francs,"  said  Marche-a-Terre;  "they  must 
be  livres.  The  Republic's  crowns  have  heathen  figures 
on  them  which  will  never  pass." 

"They  are  in  livres,  in  good  louis  d'or.  Untie  me! 
untie  me!  You  know  where  my  life  is — that  is  to  say, 
my  treasure. " 

The  four  Chouans  looked  at  each  other,  considering 
which  of  them  could  be  trusted  to  go  and  unearth  the 
money.  But  by  this  time  their  cannibal  barbarity  had 
so  horrified  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  that,  without  knowing 
whether  or  no  the  part  which  her  pale  face  marked  out 
for  her  would  suffice  to  preserve  her  from  danger,  she 
boldly  cried  in  a  deep-toned  voice:  "Do  you  not  fear 
the  wrath  of  God?  Untie  him,  savages!" 


A   DAY   WITHOUT   A   MORROW. 


249 


The  Chouans  raised  their  heads,  saw  in  the  air  eyes 
which  flashed  like  two  stars,  and  fled  in  terror.  Mile, 
de  Verneuil  jumped  down  into  the  kitchen,  flew  to 
d'Orgemont,  pulled  him  so  sharply  from  the  fire  that 
the  fagot  cords  gave  way,  and  then,  drawing  her  dagger, 
cut  the  bonds  with  which  he  was  bound.  When  the 
miser  stood  up,  a  free  man,  the  first  expression  on  his 
face  was  a  laugh — one  of  pain,  but  still  sardonic.  "Go 
to  the  apple-tree!  Go,  brigands!"  he  said.  "Aha!  I 
have  outwitted  them  twice.  They  shall  not  catch  me  a 
third  time!  " 

At  the  same  moment  a  woman's  voice  sounded  without. 
"A  ghost?"  cried  Madame  du  Gua.  "Fools!  'Tis  she! 
A  thousand  crowns  to  him  who  brings  me  the  harlot's 
head  !" 

Mile,  de  Verneuil  turned  pale,  but  the  miser  smiled, 
took  her  hand,  drew  her  under  the  chimney-mantel,  and 
prevented  her  from  leaving  any  trace  of  her  passage  by 
leading  her  so  as  not  to  disturb  the  fire,  which  filled  but 
a  small  space.  He  touched  a  spring,  the  iron  fire-back 
rose,  and  when  their  common  foes  reentered  the  cellar, 
the  heavy  door  of  the  hiding-place  had  already  noise- 
lessly closed.  Then  the  Parisian  girl  understood  the 
carp-like  wrigglings  which  she  had  seen  the  luckless 
banker  make. 

"There,  madame!"  cried  Marche-a-Terre.  "The  ghost 
has  taken  the  Blue  for  his  mate!" 

The  alarm  must  have  been  great,  for  so  deep  a  silence 
followed  these  words  that  d'Orgemont  and  his  fair  com- 
panion heard  the  Chouans  whispering  "Ava  Sancta 
Anna  Auriaca  gratia  plena,  Dominus  tecttm"  etc. 

"The  fools  are  praying!"  cried  d'Orgemont. 

"Are  you  not  afraid,"  said  Mile,  de  Verneuil  inter- 
rupting her  companion,  "of  discovering  our — 


350 


THE    CHOUANS. 


A  laugh  from  the  old  miser  dissipated  her  fears. 
"The  plate  is  bedded  in  a  slab  of  granite  ten  inches 
thick.  We  can  hear  them,  and  they  cannot  hear  us." 

Then  taking  his  liberatress'  hand  gently,  he  led  her 
towards  a  crack  whence  came  puffs  of  fresh  air;  and  she 


understood    that    the    opening    had    been    worked    in  the 
chimney. 

"Ah!"  went  on  d'Orgemont,  "the  devil!  My  legs 
smart  a  little.  That  'Filly  of  Charette,'  as  they  call  her 
at  Nantes,  is  not  fool  enough  to  contradict  her  faithful 


A  DA-JT  WITHOUT  A  MORROW  25 1 

followers;  she  knows  well  enough  that  if  they  were  less 
brutishly  ignorant,  they  would  not  fight  against  their  own 
interests.  There  she  is,  praying  too!  It  must  be  good  to 
see  her  saying  her  Ave'to  Saint  Anne  of  Auray!  She  had 
much  better  rob  a  coach  so  as  to  pay  me  back  the  four 
thousand  francs  she  owes  me.  With  costs  and  interest 
it  comes  to  a  good  four  thousand  seven  hundred  and 
eighty,  besides  centimes." 

Their  prayer  finished,  the  Chouans  rose  and  went  out. 

But  old  d'Orgemont  clutched  Mile,  de  Verneuil's  hand, 
to  warn  her  that  there  was  still  danger. 

"No,  madame!"  cried  Pille-Miche,  after  some  minutes' 
silence,  "you  may  stay  there  ten  years.  They  will  not 
come  back!  " 

"But  she  has  not  gone  out;  she  must  be  here,"  said 
Charette's  Filly,  obstinately. 

"No,  madame,  no!  they  have  flown  through  the  walls. 
Did  not  the  devil  carry  off  a  priest  who  had  taken  the 
oath  in  that  very  place  before  us?" 

"What,  Pille-Miche!  do  not  you,  who  are  as  much  of 
a  miser  as  he  is,  see  that  the  old  skinflint  might  very 
well  have  spent  some  thousands  of  livres  on  making  a 
recess  with  a  secret  entrance  in  the  foundations  of  these 
vaults?" 

The  miser  and  the  young  girl  heard  Pille-Miche  give 
a  great  laugh. 

"Right!   very  right!"   said  he. 

"Stay  here!"  said  Madame  du  Gua;  "wait  for  them 
when  they  go  out.  For  one  gunshot  I  will  give  you  all 
you  can  find  in  our  usurer's  treasury.  If  you  wish  me  to 
forgive  you  for  having  sold  the  girl  when  I  told  you  to 
kill  her,  obey  me  !" 

"Usurer!"  said  old  d'Orgemont;  "and  yet  I  charged 
her  no  more  than  nine  per  cent.  'Tis  true  that  I  had  a 


252  THE    CHOUANS. 

mortgage  as  security.  But  there  !  you  see  how  grateful 
she  is.  Come,  madame,  if  God  punishes  us  for  doing 
ill,  the  devil  is  there  to  punish  us  for  doing  good;  and 
man,  placed  between  the  two  without  knowledge  of 
futurity,  has  always  given  me  the  idea  of  a  problem  of 
proportion  in  which  x  is  an  undiscoverable  quantity." 

He  heaved  a  hollow  sigh  which  was  a  characteristic  of 
his,  the  air  which  passed  through  his  larynx  seeming  to 
encounter  and  strike  on  two  old  and  slack  fiddle-strings. 
But  the  noise  which  Pille-Miche  and  Madame  du  Gua 
made  as  they  once  more  sounded  the  walls,  the  vaulted 
ceiling,  and  the  pavement,  seemed  to  reassure  d'Orge- 
mont,  who  seized  his  deliverer's  hand  to  help  her  in 
climbing  a  narrow  corkscrew  staircase  worked  in  the 
thickness  of  a  granite  wall.  When  they  had  climbed 
some  score  of  steps  the  feeble  glimmer  of  a  lamp  shone 
above  their  heads.  The  miser  stopped,  turned  towards 
his  companion,  gazed  at  her  face  as  he  would  have  scru- 
tinized, handled,  and  rehandled  a  bill  which  was  risky 
to  discount,  and  uttered  once  more  his  boding  sigh. 

"By  placing  you  here,"  he  said,  "I  have  paid  you  back 
in  full  the  service  you  did  me.  Therefore  I  do  not  see 
why  I  should  give  you — " 

"Sir!    leave  me  here.      I  ask  nothing  of  you,"  she  said. 

Her  last  words,  and  perhaps  the  disdain  which  her 
beautiful  face  expressed,  reassured  the  little  old  man, 
for  he  answered,  sighing  again: 

"Ah  !  I  have  done  too  much  already  by  bringing  you 
here  not  to  go  on  with  it." 

He  helped  Marie  politely  to  climb  some  steps  of 
rather  puzzling  arrangement,  and  ushered  her,  half  with 
a  good  grace,  half  reluctantly,  into  a  tiny  closet,  four 
feet  square,  lighted  by  a  lamp  which  hung  from  the 
vaulting.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  the  miser  had  made 


A   DAY   WITHOUT   A   MORROW. 


253 


all  his  arrangements  for  spending  more  than  one  day  in  this 
retreat  if  the  events  of  the  civil  war  forced  him  to  do  so. 
"Do  not  go  close  to  the  wall,  the  white  will  come 
off,"  said  d'Orgemont  suddenly,  and  with  considerable 
haste  he  thrust  his  hand  between  the  young  girl's  shawl 
and  the  wall,  which  seemed  to  have  just  been  re-whit- 
ened. But  the  old  miser's  gesture  produced  an  effect 


quite  contrary  to  that  which  he  intended.  Mile,  de  Ver- 
neuil  instantly  looked  straight  before  her,  and  saw  in  a 
corner  a  sort  of  erection,  the  shape  of  which  drew  from 
her  a  cry  of  terror,  for  she  could  divine  that  a  human 
form  had  been  plastered  over  and  stood  up  there.  D'Orge- 
mont imposed  silence  on  her  with  a  terrifying  look,  but 
his  little  china-blue  eyes  showed  as  much  alarm  as  his 
companion's. 


254  THE    CHOUANS. 

"Silly  girl!  do  you  think  I  murdered  him?  'Tis  my 
brother,"  said  he,  with  a  melancholy  variation  on  his 
usual  sigh,  "the  first  rector  who  took  the  oath.  This 
was  the  only  refuge  where  he  was  safe  from  the  rage  of 
the  Chouans  and  of  the  other  priests.  That  they  should 
persecute  a  worthy  man,  so  well  conducted!  He  was  my 
elder  brother,  and  none  but  he  had  the  patience  to  teach 
me  decimal  notation.  Ah !  he  was  a  good  priest,  and 
a  saving;  he  knew  how  to  lay  up!  'Tis  four  years  since 
he  died,  of  what  disease  I  know  not;  but  look  you,  these 
priests  have  a  habit  of  kneeling  from  time  to  time  to 
pray,  and  perhaps  he  could  not  accustom  himself  to 
standing  here  as  I  do.  I  bestowed  him  there;  anywhere 
else  they  would  have  unearthed  him.  Some  day  I  may 
be  able  to  bury  him  in  holy  ground,  as  the  poor  man 
(who  only  took  the  oaths  for  fear)  used  to  say." 

A  tear  dropped  from  the  little  old  man's  dry  eyes, 
and  his  red  wig  looked  less  ugly  thenceforward  to  the 
young  girl.  She  averted  her  eyes  out  of  secret  reverence 
for  his  sorrow;  but  in  spite  of  his  emotion,  d'Orgemont 
repeated,  "Don't  go  near  the  wall,  you  will — " 

Nor  did  his  eyes  take  themselves  off  those  of  Mile,  de 
Verneuil,  as  though  he  hoped  thus  to  prevent  her 
bestowing  more  particular  attention  on  the  side  walls  of 
the  closet,  where  the  air,  half  exhausted,  gave  scanty 
play  to  the  lungs.  Yet  Marie  succeeded  in  stealing  a 
glance  from  the  surveillance  of  her  Argus;  and  from  the 
odd  bumps  on  the  walls  she  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
the  miser  had  built  them  up  himself  with  bags  of  silver 
and  gold.  For  a  moment's  space  d'Orgemont  had  plunged 
into  a  fantastic  kind  of  ecstasy.  The  pain  which  his 
scorched  legs  gave  him,  and  his  alarm  at  perceiving  a 
human  being  in  the  midst  of  his  treasures,  were  legible 
in  every  wrinkle;  but  at  the  same  time  his  dried-up 


A   DAY  WITHOUT  A  MORROW.  255 

eyes  expressed  by  their  unaccustomed  lustre  the  liberal 
passion  which  was  caused  in  him  by  the  dangerous 
vicinity  of  his  deliveress,  whose  pink  and  white  cheeks 
were  a  magnet  to  kisses,  and  whose  velvety  black  eyes 
made  the  blood  flow  so  hotly  through  his  heart,  that  he 
knew  not  whether  it  presaged  life  or  death. 

"Are  you  married?"  he  asked  her  in  a  quivering  voice. 

"No!"  she  answered  with  a  smile. 

"I  am  worth  something,"  he  said,  heaving  his  sigh, 
"though  I  am  not  as  rich  as  they  all  say.  A  girl  like 
you  ought  to  like  diamonds,  jewels,  equipages,  and  gold!  " 
he  added,  with  a  scared  look  round  him;  "I  have  all  that 
to  give  after  my  death;  and  if  you  liked — " 

The  old  man's  eye  showed  so  much  calculation,  even 
in  this  fleeting  moment  of  passion,  that  as  she  shook  her 
head  negatively,  Mile,  de  Verneuil  could  not  help  think- 
ing that  the  miser's  desire  for  her  hand  came  chiefly 
from  the  wish  to  bury  his  secret  in  the  heart  of  a  second 
self. 

"Money! "  she  said,  throwing  at  d'Orgemont  a  sar- 
castic glance  which  at  once  vexed  and  pleased  him, 
"money  is  nothing  to  me.  You  would  be  thrice  as  rich 
as  you  are  if  all  the  money  I  have  refused  were  there." 

"Don't  touch  the  w — !  " 

"And  yet  nothing  was  asked  of  me  in  return  but  a 
kind  glance,"  she  added,  with  pride  unbelievable. 

"You  were  wrong;  it  was  a  very  good  bargain.  Why, 
think—" 

"Think  you,"  interrupted  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  "that  I 
have  just  heard  yonder  the  sound  of  a  voice  one  accent 
of  which  is  more  precious  to  me  than  all  your  riches!" 

"You  do  not  know  them — 

But  before  the  miser  could  hinder  her,  Marie  displaced 
with  a  finger  touch  a  small  colored  print  of  Louis  XV. 


256  THE    CHOUANS. 

on  horseback,  and  suddenly  saw  beneath  her  the  marquis, 
who  was  busily  loading  a  blunderbuss.  The  opening, 
hidden  by  the  little  panel  on  which  the  print  was  pasted, 
no  doubt  corresponded  to  some  decoration  on  the  ceiling 
of  the  neighboring  chamber,  which  appeared  to  be  the 
Royalist  general's  bedroom.  D'Orgemont,  with  extreme 
precaution,  pushed  the  old  print  back  and  looked  sternly 
at  the  damsel. 

"Speak  not  a  word,  if  you  love  your  life!  You  have 
cast  your  grappling,"  whispered  he  after  a  pause,  "on  a 
pretty  vessel  enough.  Do  you  know  that  the  Marquis  of 
Montauran  has  a  hundred  thousand  livres  a  year  in  lease 
holds  which  have  not  yet  been  sold?  Now,  a  consular 
decree  which  I  have  read  in  the  Ille-et-Vilaine  Sunday 
Times*  has  just  put  a  stop  to  sequestrations.  Aha!  You 
think  the  Gars  there  a  prettier  man,  do  you  not?  Your 
eyes  flash  like  a  pair  of  new  louis  d'or. ' 

Mile,  de  Verneuil's  glances  had  gained  animation  as 
she  heard  the  well-known  voice  sound  once  more.  Since 
she  had  been  in  her  present  situation,  standing,  as  it  were, 
plunged  in  a  gold  and  silver  mine,  the  elasticity  of 
her  spirit,  which  had  given  way  under  the  pressure 
of  events,  had  renewed  its  vigor.  She  seemed  to  have 
taken  a  sinister  resolve,  and  to  see  her  way  to  put  it  in 
execution. 

"There  is  no  recovery  from  such  scorn  as  this,"  she 
was  sa}ring  to  herself,  "and  if  it  is  written  that  he  shall 
no  more  love  me,  I  will  kill  him!  no  other  woman  shall 
have  him!  " 

"No,  Abbe!  no,"  cried  the  young  chief,  whose  voice 
now  reached  them;  "it  must  be  so." 


*  In  original  "Primidi  de  1'Ille-et-Vilaine,"  Primidi  being  the  first  day  in  each 
decade  of  that  Republican  calendar  which  was  one  of  the  oddest  recorded  childish- 
nesses of  democracy.  —  Translator's  Note. 


A   DAY   WITHOUT  A   MORROW. 


257 


My  lord  marquis,"  objected  Abbe  Gudin,  in  a  haughty 
tone,  "you  will  scandalize  all  Brittany  if  you  give  this 
ball  at  Saint  James.  Preachers,  and  not  dancers,  are 
wanted  to  put  our  villages  in  motion.  You  must  get 
fusees,  not  fiddles." 

"Abbe,  you  are  clever  enough  to  know  that  without  a 
general  assembly  of  our  party,  I  cannot  find  out  what  I 
can  undertake  with  them.  No 
kind  of  espionage  (which,  by 
the  way,  I  hate)  seems  to  me 
more  convenient  for  the  exam- 
ination of  their  countenances, 
and  the  discovery  of  their  minds, 
than  a  dinner.  We  will  make 
them  talk,  glass  in  hand. " 

Marie  started  as  she  heard  the 
words,  for  she  conceived  the  idea 
of  going  to  this  ball  and  aveng- 
ing herself  there. 

"Do  you  think  I  am  a  fool 
that  you  preach  to  me  against 
dancing?"  went  on  Montauran. 
"Would  you  not  yourself  figure 
in  a  chaconne  with  all  the  good 
will  in  the  world  to  get  reestabl  ished  under  your  new  name 
of  Peres  de  la  Foi  ?  Can  you  be  ignorant  that  Bretons  go 
straight  from  the  mass  to  the  dance?  Can  you  be  igno- 
rant again  that  Hyde  de  Neuville  and  d'Andigne  had  an 
interview  five  days  ago  with  the  First  Consul  on  the 
question  of  restoring  His  Majesty  Louis  XVIII.?  If  I 
am  getting  ready  now  to  try  so  rash  a  coup  de  main,  my 
sole  reason  is  that  I  may  throw  the  weight  of  our  hob- 
nailed shoes  in  the  scale  of  this  negotiation.  Can  you 


258  THE    CHOUANS. 

be  ignorant  that  all  the  Vendean  chiefs,  even  Fontaine, 
talk  of  surrender?  Ah!  sir,  it  is  clear  that  the  princes 
have  been  deceived  as  to  the  state  of  France.  The 
devotion  of  which  people  talk  to  them  is  official  devo- 
tion. Only,  Abbe,  if  I  have  dipped  my  foot  in  blood,  I 
will  not  plunge  in  it  up  to  my  waist  without  knowing 
what  I  am  about.  I  have  devoted  myself  to  the  King's 
service,  and  not  to  that  of  a  parcel  of  hotheads,  of  men 
head  over  ears  in  debt  like  Rifoel,  of  chauffeurs,*  of — " 

"Say  at  once,  sir,  '  interrupted  the  Abb£  Gudin,  "of 
abbes  who  take  tithes  on  the  highway  to  maintain  the 
war!  " 

"Why  should  I  not  say  it?"  answered  the  marquis 
sharply;  "I  will  say  more:  the  heroic  age  of  La  Ven- 
dee is  past!  " 

"My  lord  marquis,  we  shall  be  able  to  do  miracles 
without  you. " 

"Yes!  miracles  like  Marie  Lambrequin's,"  said  the 
marquis,  laughing.  "Come,  Abbe,  do  not  let  us  quarrel. 
I  know  that  you  are  not  careful  of  your  own  skin,  and 
can  pick  off  a  Blue  as  well  as  say  an  oremus.  With  God's 
help,  I  hope  to  make  you  take  a  part,  mitre  on  head,  at 
the  King's  coronation." 

These  last  words  must  have  had  a  magical  effect  on 
the  Abbe,  for  the  ring  of  a  rifle  was  heard,  and  he  cried, 
"My  lord  marquis!  I  have  fifty  cartridges  in  my  pocket, 
and  my  life  is  the  King's!" 

"There  is  another  of  my  debtors,"  said  the  rniser  to 
Mile,  de  Verneuil;  "I  am  not  speaking  of  a  wretched 
five  or  six  hundred  crowns  that  he  owes  me,  but  of  a 
debt  of  blood  which  I  hope  will  be  paid  some  day.  The 


*  The  plan  of  roasting  the  feet  of  those  who  were  supposed  to  conceal  treasure 
was  common  enough;  but  English  has  no  single  word  for  it  like  chauffeurs. —  Trans- 
lator's Note. 


A   DAY   WITHOUT  A   MORROW.  259 

accursed  Jesuit  can  never  have  such  bad  luck  as  I  wish 
him.  He  had  sworn  my  brother's  death,  and  he  roused 
the  whole  country  against  him.  And  why?  Because 
the  poor  fellow  feared  the  new  laws!  " 

Then,  after  putting  his  ear  to  a  certain  spot  in  the 
hiding-place,  "The  brigands  are  making  off — the  whole 
pack  of  them,"  said  he;  "they  are  going  to  do  some  other 
miracle.  Let  us  hope  that  they  will  not  try  to  bid  me 
good-bye  as  they  did  last  time,  by  setting  fire  to  the 
house. " 

Some  half-hour  later  (during  which  time  Mile,  de  Ver- 
neuil  and  d'Orgemont  gazed  at  each  other  as  each  might 
have  gazed  at  a  picture)  the  rough,  coarse  voice  of 
Galope-Chopine  cried,  in  a  low  tone,  "There  is  no  more 
danger,  M.  d'Orgemont!  but  this  time  I  earned  my  thirty 
crowns  well!  " 

"My  child,"  said  the  miser,  "swear  that  you  will  shut 
your  eyes. " 

Mile,  de  Verneuil  covered  her  eyelids  with  one  of  her 
hands;  but  to  make  surer  still  the  old  man  blew  out  the 
lamp,  took  his  deliveress  by  the  hand,  and  helped  her 
to  take  five  or  six  steps  in  an  awkward  passage.  At  the 
end  of  a  minute  or  two  he  gently  removed  her  hand 
from  her  eyes,  and  she  found  herself  in  the  room  which 
Montauran  had  just  quitted,  and  which  was  the  miser's 
own. 

"My  dear  child,"  said  the  old  man,  "you  can  go  (do  not 
stare  round  you  like  that).  You  are  no  doubt  without 
money — here  are  ten  crowns  for  you,  there  are  clipped 
ones  among  them,  but  they  will  pass.  When  you  come 
out  of  the  garden  you  will  find  a  path  leading  to  the 
town,  or  as  they  say  now,  to  the  district.  But  the 
Chouans  are  at  Fougeres,  and  it  is  unlikely  that  you 
will  be  able  to  enter  there  directly;  so  you  may  have 


2&O  THE    ChOUANS. 

need  of  a  safe  resting-place.  Mark  well  what  I  am 
going  to  say  to  you,  and  only  make  use  of  it  in  the 
extremity  of  danger.  You  will  see  on  the  road  which 
leads  by  the  Gibarry  Valley  to  the  Nid-aux-Crocs,  a 
farm  where  Long  Cibot,  called  Galope-Chopine,  dwells. 
Go  in,  say  to  his  wife,  'Good-day,  Becaniere!'  and  Bar- 
bette will  hide  you.  If  Galope-Chopine  finds  you  out, 
he  will  take  you  for  the  ghost  if  it  is  night,  or  ten 
crowns  will  tame  him  if  it  is  day.  Good-bye!  we  are- 
quits.  But  if  you  chose,"  said  he,  pointing  with  a 
sweep  of  the  hand  to  the  fields  surrounding  his  house, 
"all  that  should  be  yours!  " 

Mile,  de  Verneuil  cast  a  grateful  glance  on  this  odd 
being,  and  succeeded  in  drawing  from  him  a  sigh  of 
unusually  varied  tone. 

"Of  course,  you  will  pay  me  my  ten  crowns?  (please 
observe  that  I  say  nothing  about  interest).  You  can 
pay  them  in  to  my  credit  with  Master  Patrat,  the  Fou- 
geres  notary — who,  if  you  chose,  would  draw  up  our 
marriage  contract,  my  lovely  treasure!  Farewell!" 

"Farewell!"  said  she,  with  a  smile  and  a  wave  of  her 
hand. 

"If  you  want  money,"  he  cried  after  her,  "I  will  lend 
it  you  at  five  per  cent.  !  yes,  at  five  merely!  did  I  say 
five?"  but  she  had  gone.  "She  seems  a  nice  girl,"  added 
d'Orgemont;  "still,  I  will  change  the  trick  of  my  chim- 
ney." Then  he  took  a  twelve-pound  loaf  and  a  ham,  and 
went  back  to  his  hiding-place. 

When  Mile,  de  Verneuil  stepped  out  in  the  open  coun- 
try she  felt  as  though  new  born;  and  the  cool  morning 
refreshed  her  face,  which  for  some  hours  past  seemed  to 
her  to  have  been  stricken  by  a  burning  atmosphere.  She 
tried  to  find  the  path  which  the  miser  had  indicated,  but 
since  nionnset  the  darkness  had  become  so  intense  that 


A   DAY   WITHOUT  A   MORROW.  261 

she  was  obliged  to  go  at  a  venture.  Soon  the  fear  of 
falling  among  the  cliffs  struck  a  chill  to  her  heart  and 
saved  her  life;  for  she  made  a  sudden  stop  with  the  pre- 
sentiment that  another  step  would  find  the  earth  yawning 
beneath  her.  The  cooler  breeze  which  kissed  her  hair, 
the  ripple  of  the  waters,  as  well  as  her  own  instinct, 
gave  her  a  hint  that  she  had  come  to  the  end  of  the  rocks 
of  Saint  Sulpice.  She  threw  her  arms  round  a  tree,  and 
waited  for  the  dawn  in  a  state  of  lively  anxiety,  for  she 
heard  a  noise  of  weapons,  of  horses,  and  of  human  tongues. 
She  felt  thankful  to  the  night  which  protected  her  from 
the  danger  of  falling  into  the  hands  of  the  Chouans  if 
they  really,  as  the  miser  had  said,  were  surrounding 
Fougeres. 

Like  bonfires  suddenly  kindled  by  night,  as  a  signal 
of  liberty,  some  gleams  of  faint  purple  ran  along  the 
mountain-tops,  the  lower  slopes  retaining  a  bluish  tinge 
in  contrast  with  the  dewy  clouds  floating  over  the 
valleys.  Soon  a  crimson  disc  rose  slowly  on  the  horizon; 
the  skies  gave  answering  light;  the  ups  and  downs  of  the 
landscape,  the  steeple  of  Saint  Leonard's,  the  rocks,  the 
meadows,  which  had  been  buried  in  shadow,  reappeared 
little  by  little,  and  the  trees  on  the  hilltops  showed 
their  outlines  in  the  nascent  blaze.  Rising  with  a  grace- 
ful bound,  the  sun  shook  himself  free  from  his  ribbons 
of  flame-color,  of  ochre,  and  of  sapphire.  His  lively 
light  sketched  harmonies  of  level  lines  from  hill  to  hill, 
and  flowed  from  vale  to  vale.  The  gloom  fled,  and  day 
overwhelmed  all  nature.  A  sharp  breeze  shivered 
through  the  air;  the  birds  sang;  on  all  sides  life  awoke. 
But  the  girl  had  hardly  had  time  to  lower  her  gaze  to 
the  main  body  of  this  striking  landscape  when,  by  a 
phenomenon  common  enough  in  these  well -watered 
countries,  sheets  of  mist  spread  themselves,  filling  the 


262  THE    CHOUANS. 

valleys,  climbing  the  tallest  hills,  and  burying  the  fer- 
tile basin  in  a  cloak,  as  of  snow.  And  soon  Mile,  de 
Verneuil  could  fancy  that  she  saw  before  her  one  of 
those  seas  of  ice  wherewith  the  Alps  are  furnished.  Then 
the  cloudy  air  became  billowy  as  the  ocean,  and  sent  up 
dense  waves  which,  softly  swinging  to  and  fro,  undu- 
lating and  even  whirling  rapidly,  dyed  themselves  with 
bright  rosy  hues  from  the  rays  of  the  sun,  with  here  and 
there  clear  patches  like  lakes  of  liquid  silver.  Sud- 
denly the  north  wind,  breathing  on  the  phantasmagoria, 
blew  the  fog  away,  leaving  a  heavy  dew*  on  the  turf. 
Then  Mile,  de  Verneuil  could  see  a  huge  brown  mass 
installed  on  the  rocks  of  Fougeres.  Seven  or  eight 
hundred  armed  Chouans  were  swarming  in  the  Faubourg 
Saint  Sulpice  like  ants  in  an  ant-heap,  and  the  precincts 
of  the  castle,  where  were  posted  three  thousand  men, 
who  had  come  up  as  if  by  enchantment,  were  furiously 
attacked.  The  town,  despite  its  grassy  ramparts  and  its 
ancient,  grizzled  towers,  might  have  succumbed  in  its 
sleep,  if  Hulot  had  not  been  on  the  watch.  A  battery, 
concealed  on  a  height  lying  in  the  hollow  of  the  ram- 
parts, replied  to  the  first  fire  of  the  Chouans  by  taking 
them  in  flank  on  the  road  leading  to  the  castle,  which 
was  raked  and  swept  clean  by  grape-shot.  Then  a  com- 
pany made  a  sortie  from  the  Porte  Saint  Sulpice,  took 
advantage  of  the  Chouans'  surprise,  formed  on  the  road- 
way, and  began  a  murderous  fire  on  them.  The  Chouans 
did  not  even  attempt  resistance  when  they  saw  the  ram- 
parts of  the  castle  covered  with  soldiers,  as  if  the  scene- 
painter's  art  had  suddenly  drawn  long  blue  lines  round 
them,  while  the  fire  of  the  fortress  protected  that  of  the 
Republican  sharp-shooters.  However,  another  party  of 


*  Balzac  wrote  "ros&e  fleine  d'oxyde. "     I  do  not  know  what  he  meant  by  this;  for 
though  dew  certainly  rusts,  it  cannot  rust  turf. —  Translator's  Note. 


A  DAY  WITHOUT  A   MORROW.  263 

Chouans,  having  made  themselves  masters  of  the  little 
valley  of  the  Nancon,  had  climbed  the  rocky  paths  and 
reached  the  promenade,  to  which  they  mounted,  the 
goatskins  which  covered  it  giving  it  the  appearance  of 
thatch  browned  by  time.  At  the  same  moment  heavy 
firing  was  heard  in  that  part  of  the  town  which  looks 
towards  the  valley  of  the  Couesnon.  It  was  clear  that 
Fougeres  was  completely  surrounded  and  attacked  on  all 
sides.  A  conflagration  which  showed  itself  on  the  east 
face  of  the  rock,  gave  evidence  that  the  Chouans  were 
burning  the  suburbs;  but  the  showers  of  sparks  which 
came  from  the  shingled  or  broom-thatched  roofs  soon 
ceased,  and  columns  of  black  smoke  showed  that  the  fire 
was  going  out.  Once  more  gray  and  white  clouds  hid 
the  scene  from  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  but  the  wind  soon 
blew  away  this  powder-fog.  The  Republican  commander 
had  already  changed  the  direction  of  his  battery,  so  as 
successively  to  rake  the  Nan$on  Valley,  the  Queen's 
Staircase,  and  the  rocks,  as  soon  as  he  had  seen  from  the 
top  of  the  promenade  the  complete  success  of  his  earlier 
orders.  Two  guns  placed  by  the  guard-house  of  the 
Porte  Saint  Leonard  mowed  down  the  swarms  of  Chouans 
which  had  carried  that  position,  while  the  Fougeres 
National  Guard,  which  had  hastily  mustered  in  the 
church  square,  put  the  finishing  touch  to  the  rout  of 
the  enemy.  The  fight  did  not  last  half  an  hour,  and 
did  not  cost  the  Blues  a  hundred  men.  The  Chouans, 
beaten  crushingly,  were  already  retiring  in  every  direc- 
tion under  the  orders  of  the  Gars,  whose  bold  stroke 
failed,  though  he  knew  it  not,  as  a  direct  consequence 
of  the  affair  at  the  Vivetiere,  which  had  brought  Hulot 
so  secretly  back  to  Fougeres.  The  guns  had  only  come 
up  that  very  night;  for  the  mere  news  that  ammunition 
was  on  its  way  would  have  been  enough  to  make  Mon- 


264  THE  CHOUANS. 

tauran  abandon  an  enterprise  which  was  certain  of  defeat 
as  soon  as  blown  upon.  Indeed,  Hulot  was  as  ardently 
desirous  of  giving  the  Gars  a  smart  lesson,  as  the  Gars 
could  be  of  succeeding  in  his  dash,  so  as  to  influence  the 
decisions  of  the  First  Consul.  At  the  first  cannon-shot 
the  marquis  saw  that  it  would  be  madness  to  go  on,  out 
of  vanity,  with  a  surprise  which  was  already  a  failure. 
So,  to  avoid  useless  loss  of  his  Chouans,  he  promptly  sent 
half-a-dozen  messengers  with  instructions  to  effect  a  retreat 
at  once  on  all  sides.  The  commandant,  catching  sight  of 
his  foe  surrounded  by  numerous  advisers,  Madame  du 
Gua  among  the  number,  tried  to  send  them  a  volley  on 
the  rocks  of  Saint  Sulpice.  But  the  position  had  been 
too  skillfully  chosen  for  the  young  chief  not  to  be  out  of 
danger.  So  Hulot  suddenly  changed  his  tactics,  and 
became  the  attacker  instead  of  the  attacked.  At  the  first 
movement  which  disclosed  the  marquis'  intentions,  the 
company  posted  under  the  castle  walls  set  to  work  to 
cut  off  the  retreat,  by  seizing  the  upper  passes  into  the 
Nan9on  Valley. 

Despite  her  hatred,  Mile,  de  Verneuil  could  not  help 
taking  the  side  of  the  men  whom  her  lover  commanded; 
and  she  turned  quickly  towards  the  other  end  to  see  if 
it  was  free.  But  there  she  saw  the  Blues,  who  had  no 
doubt  gained  the  day  on  the  other  side  of  the  town, 
returning  from  the  Couesnon  Valley  by  the  Gibarry 
Glen,  so  as  to  seize  the  Nid-aux-Crocs  and  the  part  of 
the  rocks  of  Saint  Sulpice  where  lay  the  lower  exit  of 
the  Nancon  Valley.  Thus  the  Chouans,  shut  up  in  the 
narrow  meadow  at  the  bottom  of  the  gorge,  seemed  as  if 
they  must  perish  to  the  last  man,  so  exact  had  been 
the  foresight  of  the  old  Republican  leader,  and  so  skill- 
fully had  his  measures  been  taken.  But  at  these  two 
spots  the  cannon  which  had  served  Hulot  so  well  lost 


A   DAY  WITHOUT   A   MORROW  265 

their  efficacy,  a  desperate  hand-to-hand  struggle  took 
place,  and,  Fougeres  once  saved,  the  affair  assumed  the 
character  of  an  engagement  to  which  the  Chouans  were 
well  used.  Mile,  de  Verneuil  at  once  understood  the 
presence  of  the  masses  of  men  she  had  seen  about  the 
country,  the  meeting  of  the  chiefs  at  d'Orgemont's 
house,  and  all  the  events  of  the  night;  though  she  could 
not  conceive  how  she  had  managed  to  escape  so  many 
dangers.  The  enterprise,  prompted  by  despair,  inter- 
ested her  in  so  lively  a  manner  that  she  remained  motion- 
less, gazing  at  the  animated  pictures  before  her  eyes. 
Soon  the  fight  below  the  Saint  Sulpice  crags  acquired  a 
new  interest  for  her.  Seeing  that  the  Blues  had  nearly 
mastered  the  Chouans,  the  marquis  and  his  friends  flew 
to  their  aid  in  the  Nancon  Valley.  The  foot  of  the  rocks 
was  covered  by  a  multitude  of  knots  of  furious  men,  where 
the  game  of  life  and  death  was  played  on  ground  and  with 
arms  much  more  favorable  to  the  Goatskins.  Little  by 
little  the  moving  arena  spread  itself  farther  out,  and  the 
Chouans,  scattering,  gained  the  rocks  by  the  help  of  the 
bushes  which  grew  here  and  there.  Mile,  de  Verneuil 
was  startled  to  see,  almost  too  late,  her  enemies  once 
more  upon  the  heights,  where  they  fought  furiously  to 
hold  the  dangerous  paths  which  scaled  them.  As  all 
the  outlets  of  the  high  ground  were  held  by  one  party 
or  the  other,  she  was  afraid  of  finding  herself  surrounded, 
left  the  great  tree  behind  which  she  had  kept  herself, 
and  took  to  flight,  hoping  to  profit  by  the  old  miser's 
directions.  When  she  had  hurried  a  long  way  on  the 
slope  of  the  heights  of  Saint  Sulpice  towards  the  great 
Couesnon  Valley,  she  perceived  a  cow-shed  some  way  off, 
and  guessed  that  it  belonged  to  the  house  of  Galope- 
Chopine,  who  was  likely  to  have  left  his  wife  alone  dur- 
ing the  fight.  Encouraged  by  this  guess,  Mile,  de  Ver- 


266  THE  CHOUANS. 

neuil  hoped  to  be  well  received  in  the  house,  and  to  be 
able  to  pass  some  hours  there,  till  it  might  be  possible 
for  her  to  return  without  risk  to  Fougeres.  To  judge 
from  appearances,  Hulot  was  going  to  win.  The 
Chouans  fled  so  rapidly  that  she  heard  gunshots  all 
round  her,  and  the  fear  of  being  hit  by  some  bullet 
made  her  quickly  gain  the  cottage  whose  chimney  served 
her  as  a  landmark.  The  path  she  had  followed  ended 
at  a  kind  of  shed,  the  roof  of  which,  thatched  with 
broom,  was  supported  by  four  large  tree-trunks  with  the 
bark  still  on.  A  cobbed*  wall  formed  the  end  of  the 
shed,  in  which  were  a  cider  press,  a  threshing  floor  for 
buckwheat,  and  some  ploughing  gear.  She  stopped  and 
leaned  against  one  of  the  posts,  without  making  up  her 
mind  to  cross  the  muddy  swamp  serving  as  court-yard  to 
the  house,  which,  like  a  true  Parisian,  she  had  taken 
for  a  cow-stall. 

The  cabin,  protected  from  the  north  wind  by  an  emi- 
nence which  rose  above  the  roof  and  against  which  it 
rested,  was  not  without  touches  of  poetry,  for  ash- 
suckers,  briars,  and  the  flowers  of  the  rocks  wreathed 
their  garlands  round  it.  A  rustic  stair  wrought  between 
the  shed  and  the  house  allowed  the  inhabitants  to  go 
and  breathe  a  purer  air  on  the  rock-top.  At  the  left  of 
the  cottage  the  hill  sloped  sharply  down,  and  laid  open 
to  view  a  series  of  fields,  the  nearest  of  which,  no  doubt, 
belonged  to  the  farm.  These  fields  gave  the  effect  of  a 
pleasant  woodland,  divided  by  banks  of  earth  which  were 
planted  with  trees,  and  the  nearest  of  which  helped  to 
surround  the  court-yard.  The  lane  which  led  to  the 
fields  was  closed  by  a  huge  tree-trunk,  half  rotten,  a 
kind  of  "Breton  gateway,  the  name  of  which  may  serve 


Tot-i-his,  or  "cob,"  as  it  is  called  on  the  opposite  coast  of  Devonshire,  is  clay 
ii  with  straw. —  Translator's  Note. 


A   DAY  WITHOUT  A   MORROW.  267 

later  as  text  for  a  final  digression  on  local  color. 
Between  the  stair  wrought  in  the  schist  and  the  lane, 
with  the  swamp  in  front  and  the  hanging  rock  behind, 
some  granite  blocks,  roughly  hewn,  and  piled  the  one  on 
the  other,  formed  the  four  corner-stones  of  the  house  and 
held  up  the  coarse  bricks,  the  beams,  and  the  pebbles  of 
which  the  walls  were  built.  Half  the  roof  was  thatched 
with  brocm  instead  of  straw,  and  the  other  half  was 
shingled  with  slate-shaped  pieces  of  wood,  giving  promise 
of  an  interior  divided  in  two  parts;  and  in  fact  one, 
with  a  clumsy  hurdle  as  a  door,  served  as  stall,  while 
the  owners  of  the  house  inhabited  the  other.  Though 
the  cabin  owed  to  the  neighborhood  of  the  town  some 
conveniences  which  were  completely  wanting  a  league  or 
two  further  off,  it  showed  well  enough  the  unstable  kind 
of  life  to  which  war  and  feudal  customs  had  so  sternly 
subjected  the  manners  of  the  serfs,  so  that  to  this  day 
many  peasants  in  these  parts  give  the  term  "abode" 
only  to  the  chateau  which  their  landlord  inhabits.  After 
examining  the  place  with  astonishment  which  may  easily 
be  imagine'd,  Mile,  de  Verneuil  noticed  here  and  there 
in  the  court-yard  mud  some  pieces  of  granite  so  arranged 
as  to  serve  as  stepping-stones  towards  the  house — a 
mode  of  access  not  devoid  of  danger.  But  as  she  heard 
the  roll  of  the  musketry  drawing  audibly  nearer,  she 
skipped  from  stone  to  stone,  as  if  crossing  a  brook,  to 
beg  for  shelter.  The  house  was  shut  in  by'one  of  those 
doors  which  are  in  two  separate  pieces,  the  lower  of 
solid  and  massive  wood,  while  the  upper  is  filled  by  a 
shutter  serving  as  window.  Many  shops  in  the  smaller 
French  towns  exhibit  this  kind  of  door,  but  much  more 
ornamented,  and  provided  in  the  lower  part  with  an 
alarm  bell.  The  present  specimen  opened  with  a  wooden 
latch  worthy  of  the  Golden  Age,  and  the  upper  part  was 


268  THE    CHOUANS. 

never  shut  except  at  night,  for  this  was  the  only  open- 
ing by  which  the  light  of  day  could  enter  the  room. 
There  was,  indeed,  a  roughly-made  casement;  but  its 
glass  seemed  to  be  composed  of  bottle  ends,  and  the 
leaden  latticing  which  held  them  occupied  so  much  of 
the  space  that  it  seemed  rather  intended  to  keep  light 
out  than  to  let  it  in.  When  Mile,  de  Verneuil  made  the 
door  swing  on  its  creaking  hinges,  whin's  of  an  appalling 
ammoniacal  odor  issued  to  meet  her  from  the  cottage, 
and  she  saw  that  the  cattle  had  kicked  through  the  inte- 
rior partition.  Thus  the  inside  of  the  farm — for  farm  it 
was — did  not  match  ill  with  the  outside.  Mile,  de  Ver- 
neuil was  asking  herself  whether  it  was  possible  that 
human  beings  could  live  in  this  deliberate  state  of  filth, 
when  a  small,  ragged  boy,  apparently  about  eight  or  nine 
years  old,  suddenly  showed  his  fresh  white  and  red  face, 
plump  cheeks,  bright  eyes,  teeth  like  ivory,  and  fair 
hair  falling  in  tresses  on  his  half-naked  shoulders.  His 
limbs  were  full  of  vigor,  and  his  air  had  that  agreeable 
wonder  and  savage  innocence  which  make?  children's 
eyes  look  larger  than  nature.  The  boy  was  perfectly 
beautiful. 

"Where  is  your  mother?"  said  Marie,  in  a  gentle 
voice,  and  stooping  to  kiss  his  eyes. 

When  he  had  had  his  kiss,  the  child  slipped  away 
from  her  like  an  eel,  and  disappeared  behind  a  dunghill 
which  lay  between  the  path  and  the  house  on  the  rise  of 
the  hill.  Indeed,  Galope-Chopine,  like  many  Breton 
farmers,  was  accustomed,  by  a  system  of  cultivation 
which  is  characteristic  of  them,  to  put  his  manure  in 
elevated  situations,  so  that  when  it  comes  to  be  used 
the  rain  has  deprived  it  of  all  its  virtues.  Left  to  her 
own  devices  in  the  dwelling  for  a  moment  or  two,  Marie 
was  not  long  in  taking  stock  of  its  contents.  The  room 


A   DAY  WITHOUT  A   MORROW.  269 


in  which  she  waited  for  Barbette  was  the  only  one  in 
the  house;  the  most  prominent  and  stately  object  in  it 
was  a  huge  chimney-piece,  the  mantel  of  which  was 
formed  of  a  slab  of  blue  granite.  The  etymology  of  the 
word*  justified  itself  by  a  rag  of  green  serge  edged  with 
a  pale-green  ribbon,  and  cut  out  in  rounds,  hanging 
down  the  slab,  in  the  midst  of  which  stood  a  Virgin  in 
colored  plaster.  On  the  pedestal  of  the  statue  Mile,  de 
Verneuil  read  two  verses  of  a  sacred  poem  very  popu- 
lar in  the  country: 

"I  am  God's  mother,  full  of 'graced 
And  the  protectress  of  this  place." 

Behind  the  Virgin,  a  hideous  picture,  blotched  with 
red  and  blue  by  way  of  coloring,  presented  Saint  Labre. 
A  bed,  also  of  green  serge,  of  the  shape  called  tomb- 
shaped,  a  rough  cradle,  a  wheel,  some  clumsy  chairs, 
and  a  carved  dresser,  furnished  with  some  utensils,  com- 
pleted, with  a  few  exceptions,  the  movable  property  of 
Galope-Chopine.  In  front  of  the  casement  there  was  a 
long  chestnut-wood  table,  with  two  benches  in  the  same 
wood,  to  which  such  light  as  came  through  the  glass 
gave  the  tint  of  old  mahogany.  An  enormous  cider  cask, 
under  whose  spile  Mile,  de  Verneuil  noticed  some 
yellowish  mud,  the  moisture  of  which  was  slowly  rot- 
ting the  floor,  though  it  was  composed  of  fragments  of 
granite  set  in  red  clay,  showed  that  the  master  of  the 
house  well  deserved  his  Chouan  nickname  (Galope- 
Chopine,  "tosspot").  Mile,  de  Verneuil  lifted  her  eyes 
as  if  to  relieve  them  of  this  spectacle,  and  then  it 
seemed  to  her  that  she  saw  all  the  bats  in  the  world — so 
thick  were  the  spiders'  webs  which  hung  from  the  ceil- 
ing. Two  huge  pickets  full  of  cider  stood  on  the  long 


*  ^lanteau,  "cloak." — Translator's  .\~nfi'. 

t  Words  inserted,  "rliy»ti  gratia."—  Translator's  Note. 


270  THE    CHOUANS. 

table.  These  vessels  are  a  kind  of  jug  of  brown  earth, 
the  curious  pattern  of  which  is  found  in  more  than  one 
district  of  France,  and  which  a  Parisian  can  imagine 
by  fancying  the  jars  in  which  epicures  serve  up  Brittany 
butter,  with  the  belly  somewhat  swollen,  varnished  here 
and  there  in  patches  and  shaded  over  with  dark  yellow 
like  certain  shells.  The  jugs  end  in  a  sort  of  mouth  not 
unlike  that  of  a  frog  taking  in  air  above  water.  Marie's 
attention  had  fixed  on  these  pitchers,  but  the  noise  of 
the  fighting,  which  sounded  more  and  more  distinct, 
urged  her  to  seek  a  place  more  suitable  for  hiding  with- 
out waiting  for  Barbette,  when  the  woman  suddenly 
appeared. 

"Good  day,  Becaniere!  "  said  she  to  her,  suppressing 
an  involuntary  smile,  as  she  saw  a  face  which  was  not 
unlike  the  heads  that  architects  place  as  ornaments  over 
the  keystones  of  window-arches. 

"Aha!  you  come  from  d'Orgemont,"  answered  Bar- 
bette, with  no  great  air  of  alacrity. 

"Where  are  you  going  to  put  me?  for  the  Chouans  are 
coming  ! " 

"There! "  said  Barbette,  equally  astounded  at  the 
beauty  and  the  strange  dress  of  a  creature  whom  she 
dared  not  take  for  one  of  her  own  sex.  "There!  in  the 
priest's  hole. " 

She  led  her  to  the  head  of  her  own  bed  and  made  her 
go  into  the  alcove.  But  they  were  both  startled  by  hear- 
ing a  stranger  plashing  through  the  swamp.  Barbette 
had  scarcely  time  to  draw  a  bed-curtain  and  wrap  Marie 
up  in  it,  when  she  found  herself  face  to  face  with  a 
fugitive  Chouan. 

"Old  woman!  where  can  one  hide  here?  I  am  the 
Comtc  de  Bauvan. " 

Mile,    de    Verneuil   shuddered    as    she    recognized    the 


A   DAY   WITHOUT   A   MORROW. 


271 


voice  of  the  guest  whose  words — few  as  they  were,  and 
secret  as  they  had  been  kept  from  her — had  brought  about 
the  disaster  at  the  Vivetiere. 


272  THE    CHOUANS. 

"Alas!  monseigneur,  you  see  there  is  nothing  of  the 
kind  here.  The  best  I  can  do  is  to  go  out  and  keep 
watch.  If  the  Blues  come,  I  will  warn  you.  If  I  staid 
here,  and  they  found  me  with  you,  they  would  burn  my 
house. " 

And  Barbette  left  the  room;  for  she  was  not  clever 
enough  to  adjust  the  claims  of  two  mutual  enemies  who 
were,  thanks  to  her  husband's  double  part,  equally 
entitled  to  the  use  of  the  hiding-place. 

"I  have  two  shots  still  to  fire,"  said  the  count  despair- 
ingly, "but  they  have  got  in  front  of  me  already.  Never 
mind  !  I  shall  be  much  out  of  luck  if,  as  they  come  back 
this  way,  they  take  a  fancy  to  look  under  the  bed!  ' 

He  put  his  gun  gently  down  by  the  bed-post  where 
Marie  was  standing  wrapped  in  the  green  serge,  and  he 
stooped  to  make  sure  that  he  could  find  room  under  the 
bed.  He  must  infallibly  have  seen  the  feet  of  the  con- 
cealed girl,  but  in  this  supreme  moment  she  caught  up 
his  gun,  leaped  briskly  into  the  open  hut,  and  threatened 
the  count,  who  burst  out  laughing  as  he  recognized  her; 
for  in  order  to  hide  herself,  Marie  had  discarded  her 
great  Chouan  hat,  and  her  hair  fell  in  thick  tufts  from 
underneath  a  lace  net. 

"Don't  laugh,  count!  you  are  my  prisoner!  If  you 
make  a  single  movement  you  shall  know  what  an  offended 
woman  is  capable  of." 

While  the  count  and  Marie  were  staring  at  each  other 
with  very  different  feelings,  confused  voices  shouted 
from  the  rocks,  "Save  the  Gars!  Scatter  yourselves! 
Save  the  Gars!  Scatter  yourselves!" 

Barbette's  voice  rang  over  the  tumult  outside,  and  was 
heard  in  the  cottage  with  very  different  sensations  by 
the  two  foes;  for  she  spoke  less  to  her  son  than  to 
them. 


A    DAY  WITHOUT    A    MORROW. 


273 


"Don't  you  see  the  Blues?"  cried  Barbette  sharply. 
"Are  you  coming  here,  wicked  little  brat!  or  shall  I  come 
to  you?  Do  you  want  to  be  shot?  Get  away  quickly!  " 

During  these  details,  which  took  little  time,  a  Blue 
jumped  into  the  swamp.  "Beau-Pied!"  cried  Mile,  de 
Verneuil  to  him. 


Beau-Pied  ran  in  at  her  voice,    and  took  rather  better 
aim  at  the  count  than  his  deliveress  had  done. 

"Aristocrat!"   said    the    sly  soldier,   "don't   stir,    or    1 
will  demolish  you  like  the  Bastile  in  two  jiffies!" 

"Monsieur  Beau-Pied,"   continued  Mile,    de    Verneuil 
in  a  coaxing  tone,   "you  will   answer  to  me  for  this  pris- 
oner.     Do  what  you   like  with  him;    but    you    must    get 
him  safe  and  sound  to  Fougeres  for  me." 
18 


274  THE    CHOUANS. 

"Enough,  madame!  " 

"Is  the  road  to  Fougeres  clear  now?" 

"It  is  safe  enough,  unless  the  Chouans  come  alive  again." 

Mile,  de  Verneuil  armed  herself  gayly  with  the  light 
fowling-piece,  smiled  sarcastically  as  she  said  to  her 
prisoner,  "Good-bye,  Monsieur  le  Comte;  we  meet  again," 
and  fled  to  the  path,  after  putting  on  her  great  hat  once 
more. 

"I  see,"  said  the  count  bitterly,  "a  little  too  late,  that 
one  ought  never  to  make  jests  on  the  honor  of  women 
who  have  none  left." 

"Aristocrat!"  cried  Beau-Pied  harshly,  "if  you  don't 
want  me  to  send  you  to  that  ci-devant  paradise  of  yours, 
say  nothing  against  that  fair  lady!  " 

Mile,  de  Verneuil  returned  to  Fougeres  by  the  paths 
which  connect  the  crags  of  Saint  Sulpice  and  the  Nid- 
aux-Crocs.  When  she  reached  this  latter  eminence  and 
was  hastening  along  the  winding  path  which  had  been 
laid  in  the  rough  granite,  she  admired  the  beautiful 
little  valley  of  the  Nanfon,  just  before  so  noisy,  now 
perfectly  quiet.  From  where  she  was  the  valley  looked 
like  a  green  lane.  She  entered  the  town  by  the  gate  of 
Saint  Leonard,  at  which  the  little  path  ended.  The 
townsmen — still  alarmed  by  the  fight,  which,  consider- 
ing the  gunshots  heard  afar  off,  seemed  likely  to  last 
throughout  the  day — were  awaiting  the  return  of  the 
National  Guard  in  order  to  learn  the  extent  of  their 
losses.  When  the  men  of  Fougeres  saw  the  girl  in  her 
strange  costume,  her  hair  disheveled,  a  gun  in  her  hand, 
her  shawl  and  gown  whitened  by  contact  with  walls, 
soiled  with  mud  and  drenched  with  dew,  their  curiosity 
was  all  the  more  vividly  excited  in  that  the  power,  the 
beaut}',  and  the  eccentricity  of  the  fair  Parisian  already 
formed  their  staple  subject  of  conversation. 


A    DAY    WITHOUT  A    MORROW.  275 


Francine,  a  prey  to  terrible  anxiety,  had  sat  up  for  her 
mistress  the  whole  night,  and  when  she  saw  her  she  was 
about  to  speak,  but  was  silenced  by  a  friendly  gesture. 

"I  am  not  dead,  child,"  said  Marie.  "Ah!  when  I  left 
Paris  I  pined  for  exciting  adventures — I  have  had  them," 
added  she,  after  a  pause.  But  when  Francine  was  about 
to  go  and  order  breakfast,  remarking  to  her  mistress  that 
she  must  be  in  great  need  of  it,  Mile,  de  Verneuil  cried, 
"Oh,  no!  A  bath!  a  bath  first!  The  toilette  before  all." 
And  Francine  was  not  a  little  surprised  to  hear  her  mis- 
tress ask  for  the  most  elegant  and  fashionable  dresses 
which  had  been  packed  up.  When  she  had  finished  her 
breakfast,  Marie  sat  about  dressing  with  all  the  elabo- 
rate care  which  a  woman  is  wont  to  bestow  on  this  all- 
important  business  when  she  has  to  show  herself  in  the 
midst  of  a  ball-room  to  the  eyes  of  a  beloved  object. 
The  maid  could  not  understand  her  mistress'  mocking 
gayety.  It  was  not  the  joy  of  loving  (for  no  woman  can 
mistake  that  expression);  it  was  concentrated  spite, 
which  boded  ill.  Marie  arranged  the  curtains  of  the 
window,  whence  the  eye  fell  on  a  magnificent  pano- 
rama; then  she  drew  the  sofa  near  the  fire-place,  set  it  in 
a  light  favorable  to  her  face,  bade  Francine  get  flowers 
so  as  to  give  the  room  a  festal  appearance,  and  when 
they  were  brought,  superintended  their  disposal  in  the 
most  effective  manner.  Then,  after  throwing  a  last 
glance  of  satisfaction  on  her  apartment,  she  told  Fran- 
cine  to  send  to  the  commandant  and  ask  for  her  pris 
oner.  She  stretched  herself  voluptuously  on  the  couch, 
half  for  the  sake  of  resting,  half  in  order  that  she  might 
assume  an  attitude  of  frail  elegance,  which  in  certain 
women  has  an  irresistible  fascination.  Her  air  of 
languid  softness,  the  provoking  arrangement  of  her  feet, 
the  tips  of  which  .just  peeped  from  the  skirt  of  her 


276  THE   CHOUANS. 

gown,  the  abandon  of  her  body,  the  bend  of  her  neck, 
even  the  angle  formed  by  her  taper  fingers,  which  hung 
from  a  cushion  like  the  petals  of  a  tuft  of  jasmine, 
made  up,  with  her  glances,  a  harmony  of  allurement. 
She  burned  some  perfumes  to  give  the  air  that  soft  influ- 
ence which  is  so  powerful  on  the  human  frame,  and 
which  often  smooths  the  way  to  conquests  which  women 
wish  to  gain  without  apparently  inviting  them.  A  few 
moments  later  the  old  soldier's  heavy  step  echoed  in  the 
ante-chamber. 

"Well!    commandant,  where  is  my  captive?" 

"I  have  just  ordered  out  a  picket  of  twelve  men  to 
shoot  him  as  one  taken  arms  in  hand." 

"What!  you  have  settled  the  fate  of  my  prisoner?" 
she  said.  "Listen,  commandant!  I  do  not  think,  if  I 
may  trust  your  face,  that  the  death  of  a  man  in  cold 
blood  is  a  thing  particularly  delightful  to  you.  Well, 
then,  give  me  back  my  Chouan,  and  grant  him  a  reprieve, 
for  which  I  will  be  responsible.  I  assure  you  that  this 
aristocrat  has  become  indispensable  to  me,  and  that  he 
will  help  in  executing  our  projects.  Besides,  to  shoot  a 
man  like  this,  who  is  playing  at  Chouannerie,  would  be 
as  silly  a  thing  as  to  send  a  volley  at  a  balloon,  which 
needs  only  a  pin-prick  to  shrivel  it  up.  For  God's 
sake,  leave  cruelty  to  aristocrats;  Republics  should  be 
generous.  Would  you  not,  if  it  had  lain  with  you,  have 
pardoned  the  victims  of  Quiberon  and  many  others? 
There,  let  your  twelve  men  go  and  make  the  rounds,  and 
come  and  dine  with  me  and  my  prisoner.  There  is  only 
another  hour  of  daylight,  and  you  see,"  added  she,  with 
a  smile,  "if  you  are  not  quick,  my  toilette  will  miss  its 
effect." 

"But,  mademoiselle — "  said  the  commandant  in  sur- 
prise. 


A   DAY   WITHOUT   A   MORROW. 


277 


"Well,  what?  I  know  what  you  mean.  Come,  the 
count  shall  not  escape  you.  Sooner  or  later  the  plump 
butterfly  will  burn  his  wings  in  your  platoon  fire." 

The  commandant  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly,  like 
a  man  who  is  forced  to  obey,  willy  nilly,  the  wishes  of 


a  pretty  woman,   and   came    back  in   half    an    hour,    fol- 
lowed by  the  Comte  de  Bauvan. 

Mile,  de  Verneuil  pretended  to  be  caught  unawares  by 
her  guests,  and  showed  some  confusion  at  being  seen  by 
the  count  in  so  careless  an  attitude.  But  as  she  saw  in 
the  nobleman's  eyes  that  her  first  attack  had  succeeded, 
she  rose  and  devoted  herself  to  her  company  with  the 
perfection  of  grace  and  politeness.  Nothing  forced  or 
studied  in  her  posture,  her  smile,  her  movements,  or 


278  THE    CHOUANS. 

her  voice,  betrayed  a  deliberate  design.  Everything  was 
in  harmony,  and  no  exaggeration  suggested  that  she  was 
affecting  the  manners  of  a  society  in  which  she  had  not 
lived.  When  the  Royalist  and  the  Republican  had  taken 
their  seats,  she  bent  a  look  of  severity  on  the  count. 
He  knew  women  well  enough  to  be  aware  that  the  insult 
of  which  he  had  been  guilty  was  likely  to  be  rewarded 
with  sentence  of  death.  But  though  he  suspected  as 
much,  he  preserved  the  air,  neither  gay  nor  sad,  of  a  man 
who  at  any  rate  does  not  expect  any  such  tragic  ending. 
Soon  it  seemed  to  him  absurd  to  fear  death  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  beautiful  woman,  and  finally  Marie's  air  of 
severity  began  to  put  notions  in  his  head. 

"Who  knows,"  thought  he  to  himself,  "if  a  count's 
coronet,  still  to  be  had,  may  not  please  her  better  than 
a  marquis'  that  is  lost?  Montauran  is  a  dry  stick  enough, 
while  I—  "  and  he  looked  at  himself  with  satisfaction. 
"Now,  the  least  that  I  can  gain  is  to  save  my  head!  " 

But  his  diplomatic  reflections  did  not  do  him  much 
good.  The  liking  which  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
feign  for  Mile,  de  Verneuil  became  a  violent  fancy 
which  the  dangerous  girl  took  pleasure  in  stimulat- 
ing. 

"Count,"  she  said,  "you  are  my  prisoner,  and  I  have 
the  right  to  dispose  of  you.  Your  execution  will  not 
take  place  without  my  consent,  and,  as  it  happens,  I  am 
too  full  of  curiosity  to  let  you  be  shot  now." 

"But  suppose  I  were  to  be  obstinately  discreet?" 
answered  he,  merrily. 

"With  an  honest  woman  perhaps  you  might;  but  with 
a  'wench! '  Come,  come!  count,  that  would  be  impos- 
sible. " 

These  words,  full  of  bitter  irony,  were  hissed  out  (as 
Sully  says,  speaking  of  the  Duchess  of  Beaufort)  from  so 


A  DAY  WITHOUT  A  MORROW,  879 


riarp  a  beak  that  the  nobleman  in  his  surprise  merely 
ized  at  his  ferocious  adversary. 
"Come,"  she  went  on   mockingly,    "not    to   contradict 
jou,  I  will   be,    like  these  creatures,    'a  kind  girl.'     To 
begin  with,  here  is  your  gun;"  and  she  handed  him  his 
weapon  with  a  gesture  of  gentle  sarcasm. 

"On  the  faith  of  a  gentleman,  mademoiselle,  you  are 
acting — " 

"Ah!  "  she  said,  breaking  in,  "I  have  had  enough  of  the 
faith  of  gentlemen.  That  was  the  assurance  on  which  I 
entered  the  Vivetiere.  Your  chief  swore  to  me  that  I 
and  mine  should  be  safe  there!  " 

"Infamous!  "  cried  Hulot,  with  frowning  brows. 

"It  was  M.  le  Comte's  fault,"  she  said,  pointing  to 
him.  "The  Gars  certainly  meant  quite  sincerely  to  keep 
his  word;  but  this  gentleman  threw  on  me  some  slander 
or  other  which  confirmed  all  the  tales  that  'Charette's 
Filly'  had  been  kind  enough  to  imagine." 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  the  count,  disordered,  "if  my 
head  were  under  the  axe,  I  could  swear  that  I  said  but 
the  truth—" 

"In  saying  what?" 

"That  you  had  been  the — 

"Out  with  the  word! — the  mistress — 

"Of  the  Marquis  (now  Duke)  of  Lenoncourt,  who  is 
one  of  my  friends,"  said  the  count. 

"Now  I  might  let  you  go  to  execution,"  said  Marie, 
unmoved  in  appearance  by  the  deliberate  accusation  of 
the  count,  who  sat  stupefied  at  the  real  or  feigned  indif- 
ference which  she  showed  towards  the  charge.  But  she 
went  on,  with  a  laugh,  "Dismiss  forever  from  your  mind 
the  sinister  image  of  those  pellets  of  lead!  for  you  have 
no  more  offended  me  than  this  friend  of  yours  whose— 
what  is  it? — fie  on  me! — you  would  have  me  to  have 


280 


THE   CHOUANS. 


been.      Listen,   count,   have  you   not   visited    my  father, 
the  Duke  de  Verneuil?      Eh?" 

Thinking,  no  doubt,  that  the  confidence  which  she  was 
about  to  make  was  of  too  great  importance  for  Hulot  to 
be  admitted  to  it,  Mile,  de  Verneuil  beckoned  the  count 
to  her  and  said  some  words  in  his  ear.  M.  de  Bauvan 
let  slip  a  half-uttered  exclamation  of  surprise,  and 
looked  with  a  puzzled  air  at  Marie,  who  suddenly  com- 


pleted the  memory  -to  which  she  had  appealed  by  lean- 
ing against  the  chimney-piece  in  a  child's  attitude  of 
innocent  simplicity.  The  count  dropped  on  one  knee. 

"Mademoiselle!  "  he  cried,  "I  implore  you  to  grant  me 
pardon,  however  unworthy  I  may  be  of  it." 

'I  have  nothing  to  forgive,"  she  said.  "You  are  as  far 
from  the  truth  now  in  your  repentance  as  you  were  in 
your  insolent  supposition  at  the  Vivetiere.  But  these 


A    DAY   WITHOUT  A   MORROW.  28l 

secrets  are  above  your  understanding.  Know  only, 
count,"  added  she,  gravely,  "that  the  Duke  de  Ver- 
neuil's  daughter  has  too  much  loftiness  of  soul  not  to  take 
a  lively  interest  in  you." 

"Even  after  an  insult?"  said  the  count,  with  a  sort  of 
regret. 

"Are  not  some  persons  too  highly  placed  to  be  within 
the  reach  of  insult?  Count,  I  am  one  of  them." 

And  as  she  spoke  these  words  the  girl  assumed  an  air 
of  noble  pride,  which  overawed  her  prisoner  and  made 
the  whole  comedy  much  less  clear  to  Hulot.  The  com- 
mandant put  his  hand  to  his  moustache  as  though  to 
twist  it  up,  and  looked  with  a  somewhat  disturbed  air 
at  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  who  gave  him  to  understand  by  a 
sign  that  she  was  making  no  change  in  her  plan. 

"Now,"  she  said,  after  an  interval,  "let  us  talk. 
Francine,  give  us  lights,  child." 

And  she  brought  the  conversation  very  cleverly  round 
to  that  time  which  a  few  short  years  had  made  the 
ancien  regime.  She  carried  the  count  back  to  this  period 
so  well  by  the  vivacity  of  her  remarks  and  her  sketches, 
she  supplied  him  with  so  many  occasions  of  showing 
his  wit  by  the  complaisant  ingenuity  with  which  she 
indulged  him  in  repartees,  that  he  ended  by  think- 
ing to  himself  that  he  had  never  been  more  agreeable, 
and,  his  youth  restored  by  the  notion,  he  tried  to  com- 
municate to  this  alluring  person  the  good  opinion  which 
he  had  of  himself.  The  malicious  girl  took  delight 
in  trying  upon  him  all  the  devices  of  her  coquetry, 
and  was  able  to  play  the  game  all  the  more  skillfully 
that  for  her  it  was  a  game,  and  nothing  more.  And  so 
at  one  moment  she  let  him  believe  that  he  had  made 
a  quick  advance  in  her  favor;  at  another,  as  though 
astonished  at  the  liveliness  of  her  feelings,  she  showed 


282  THE  CHOUANS, 

a.  coldness  which  charmed  the  count,  and  helped  sensi- 
bly to  increase  his  impromptu  passion.  She  behaved 
exactly  like  an  angler  who  from  time  to  time  pulls  up 
his  line  to  see  if  a  fish  has  bitten.  The  poor  count 
allowed  himself  to  be  caught  by  the  innocent  manner  in 
which  his  deliveress  had  accepted  a  compliment  or  two, 
neatly  turned  enough.  The  emigration,  the  Republic, 
Brittany,  the  Chouans,  were  things  a  thousand  miles 
away  from  his  thoughts.  Hulot  sat  bolt  upright,  motion- 
less and  solemn  as  the  god  Terminus.  His  want  of 
breeding  incapacitated  him  entirely  for  this  style  of  con- 
versation. He  had,  indeed,  a  shrewd  suspicion  that  the 
two  speakers  must  be  very  droll  people,  but  his  intelli- 
gence could  soar  no  higher  than  the  attempt  to  under- 
stand them  so  far  as  to  be  sure  that  they  were  not  plot- 
ting against  the  Republic  under  cover  of  ambiguous 
language. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  the  count,  "Montaman  is  well- 
born, well-bred,  and  a  pretty  fellow  enoguh;  but  he  is 
absolutely  ignorant  of  gallantry  He.  is  too  young  to  have 
seen  Versailles.  His  education  has  been  a  failure,  and 
instead  of  playing  mischievous  tricks,  he  is  a  man  to 
deal  dagger-blows.  He  can  love  fiercely,  but  he  will  never 
acquire  the  perfect  flower  of  manners  by  which  Lauzun. 
Adhemar,  Coigny,  and  so  many  others  were  distin- 
guished. He  does  not  possess  the  pleasing  talent  of  say- 
ing to  women  those  pretty  nothings  which  after  all  suit 
them  better  than  explosions  of  passion,  whereof  they  are 
soon  tired.  Yes!  though  he  be  a  man  who  has  been 
fortunate  enough  with  the  sex,  he  has  neither  the  ease 
nor  the  grace  of  the  character." 

"I  did  not  fail  to  perceive  it,"  answered  Marie. 

"Aha!  "  said  the  count  to  himself,  "that  tone  and  look 
meant  that  we  shall  soon  be  on  the  very  best  terms 


A  DAY  WITHOUT  A  MORROW.  383 

together;    and,  faith!    in  order  to  be  hers,  I  will  believe 
anything  she  wishes  me  to  believe!  " 

Dinner  being  announced,  he  offered  his  hand  to  her. 
Mile,  de  Verneuil  did  the  honors  of  the  meal  with  a 
politeness  and  tact  which  could  only  have  been  acquired 
by  a  court  education  and  in  the  polished  life  of  the 
court. 

"You  had  better  go,"  said  she  to  Hulot,  as  they  rose 
from  the  table;  "you  would  frighten  him;  while  if  we 
are  alone  I  shall  soon  find  out  what  I  want  to  know. 
He  has  come  to  the  pitch  where  a  man  tells  me  every- 
thing he  thinks,  and  sees  everything  through  my  eyes." 

"And  afterwards?"  asked  the  commandant,  as  if  de- 
manding the  extradition  of  his  prisoner. 

"Oh!    he  must  be  free,"  said  she,  "free  as  air!" 

"Yet  he  was  caught  with  arms  in  his  hands." 

"No,"  said  she,  with  one  of  the  jesting  sophistries 
which  women  love  to  oppose  to  peremptory  reason,  "I 
had  disarmed  him  before.  Count,"  she  said  to  the 
nobleman,  as  she  reentered  the  room,  "I  have  just 
begged  your  freedom;  but  nothing  for  nothing!  "  she 
added,  with  a  smile  and  a  sidelong  motion  of  her  head, 
as  if  putting  questions  to  him. 

"Ask  me  for  anything,  even  my  name  and  my  honor!  " 
he  cried  in  his  intoxication.  "I  lay  all  at  your  feet!  "  and 
he  darted  forward  to  grasp  her  hand,  endeavoring  to 
represent  his  desire  as  gratitude.  But  Mile,  de  Ver- 
neuil was  not  a  girl  to  mistake  the  two;  and  there- 
fore, smiling  all  the  while,  so  as  to  give  some  hope  to 
this  new  lover,  but  stepping  back  a  pace  or  two,  she 
said,  "Will  you  give  me  cause  to  repent  my  trust?" 

"A  girl's  thoughts  run  faster  than  a  woman's,"  he 
replied,  laughing. 

"A  girl  has  more  to  lose  than  a  woman." 


284  THE    CHOUANS. 

"True;  those  who  carry  treasures  should  be  mistrust- 
ful." 

"Let  us  drop  this  talk,"  said  she,  "and  speak  seriously. 
You  are  going  to  give  a  ball  at  Saint  James.  I  have 
been  told  that  you  have  established  there  your  stores, 
your  arsenals,  and  the  seat  of  your  government.  When 
is  the  ball?" 

"To-morrow  night." 

"You  will  not  be  surprised,  sir,  that  a  slandered 
woman  should  wish,  with  a  woman's  obstinacy,  to 
obtain  a  signal  reparation  for  the  insults  which  she  has 
undergone  in  the  presence  of  those  who  witnessed  them. 
Therefore  I  will  go  to  your  ball.  I  ask  you  to  grant 
me  your  protection  from  the  moment  I  appear  there  to 
the  moment  I  leave.  I  will  not  have  your  word,"  said 
she,  noticing  that  he  was  placing  his  hand  on  his  heart. 
"I  hate  oaths;  they  are  too  like  precautions.  Simply 
tell  me  that  you  will  undertake  to  hold  my  person  scath- 
less  from  all  criminal  or  shameful  attempt.  Promise  to 
redress  the  wrong  you  have  done  me  by  announcing  that 
I  am  really  the  Duke  de  Verneuil's  daughter,  and  by 
holding  your  tongue  about  all  the  ills  I  owed  to  a  lack 
of  paternal  protection.  We  shall  then  be  quits.  What? 
Can  a  couple  of  hours'  protection  given  to  a  lady  at  a 
ball  be  too  heavy  a  ransom?  Come!  you  are  worth  no 
more!  "  But  she  took  all  the  bitterness  out  of  her  words 
with  a  smile. 

"What  do  you  ask,  then,  for  my  gun's  ransom?"  said  the 
count  with  a  laugh. 

"Oh!    more  than  for  yourself." 

"What?" 

"Secrecy.  Believe  me,  Bauvan,  only  women  can  detect 
women.  I  know  that  if  you  sa)'  a  word  I  may  be  mur- 
dered on  the  road.  Yesterday  certain  bullets  gave  me 


A    DAY   WITHOUT   A   MORROW.  285 

warning  of  the  danger  I  have  to  run  on  the  highway. 
That  lady  is  as  clever  at  the  chase  as  she  is  deft  at  the 
toilette.  No  waiting-maid  ever  undressed  me  so  quickly. 
For  heaven's  sake!"  she  said,  "take  care  that  I  have 
nothing  of  that  kind  to  fear  at  the  ball." 

"You  will  be  under  my  protection  there!"  said  the 
count  proudly.  "But,"  he  asked  with  some  sadness,  "are 
you  going  to  Saint  James  for  Montauran's  sake?" 

"You  want  to  know  more  than  I  know  myself!"  she 
said  with  a  laugh,  adding,  after  a  pause,  "Now  go!  I 
will  myself  escort  you  out  of  the  town;  for  you  all 
wage  war  like  mere  savages  here." 

"Then,  you  care  a  little  for  me?"  cried  the  count. 
"Ah,  mademoiselle,  allow  me  to  hope  that  you  will  not 
be  insensible  to  my  friendship,  for  I  suppose  I  must  be 
content  with  that,  must  I  not?"  he  added,  with  an  air 
of  coxcombry. 

"Go  away,  you  conjurer!  "  said  she,  with  the  cheerful 
expression  of  a  woman  who  confesses  something  that 
compromises  neither  her  dignity  nor  her  secrets. 

Then  she  put  on  a  jacket  and  accompanied  the  count 
to  the  Nid-aux-Crocs.  When  she  had  come  to  the  end 
of  the  path,  she  said  to  him,  "Sir!  observe  the  most 
absolute  secrecy,  even  with  the  marquis,"  and  she  placed 
her  finger  on  her  lips.  The  count,  emboldened  by  her 
air  of  kindness,  took  her  hand  (which  she  let  him  take 
as  though  it  were  the  greatest  favor)  and  kissed  it 
tenderly. 

"Oh!  mademoiselle,"  cried  he,  seeing  himself  out  of 
all  danger,  "count  on  me  in  life  and  in  death.  Though 
the  gratitude  I  owe  you  is  almost  equal  to  that  which  I 
owe  my  mother,  it  will  be  very  difficult  for  me  to  feel 
towards  you  only  respect." 

He  darted    up  the  path,   and  when  she  had  seen  him 


THE    CHOUAN8. 


gain  the  crags 
of  Saint  Sul- 
pice,  Marie 
nodded  her 
head  with  a 
satisfied  air, 
and  whis- 
pered to  her- 
self, "The  fat 
fellow  has 
given  me 
more  than  his 
life  for  his 
life.  I  could 
make  him  my 
creature  a  t 
very  small  ex- 
pense. Creat- 
ure or  crea- 
tor, that  is 
all  the  differ- 
ence between 
one  man  and 
another!  " 

She  did  not  finish   her    sentence, 
but    cast    a    despairing    glance    to 


heaven,  and  slowly  made  her  way 
back  to  the  Porte  Saint  Leonard, 
:-~: where  Hulot  and  Corentin  were  waiting  for  her. 
"Two  days  more!  "  she  cried,  "and — "  but  she 
stopped,  seeing  that  she  and  Hulot  were  not  alone — "and 
he  shall  fall  under  your  guns,"  she  whispered  to  the 
commandant.  He  stepped  back  a  pace,  and  gazed, 


A  DAV  WITHOUT  A  MORROW.  287 

with  an  air  of  satire  not  easy  to  describe,  on  the  girl 
whose  face  and  bearing  showed  not  a  touch  of  remorse. 
There  is  in  women  this  admirable  quality,  that 
they  never  think  out  their  most  blameworthy  actions. 
Feeling  carries  them  along;  they  are  natural  even 
in  their  very  dissembling,  and  in  them  alone  crime 
can  be  found  without  accompanying  basei^ps,  for  in  most 
cases  "they  know  not  what  they  do." 

"I  am  going  to  Saint  James,  to  the  ball  given  by  the 
Chouans,  and — 

"But,"  said  Corentin,  interrupting  her.  "it  is  five 
leagues  off.  Would  you  like  me  to  go  with  you?" 

"You  are  very  busy,"  said  she  to  him,  "with  a  subject 
of  which  I  never  think — with  yourself!  " 

The  contempt  which  Marie  showed  for  Corentin 
pleased  Hulot  particularly,  and  he  made  his  grimace  as 
she  vanished  towards  Saint  Leonard's.  Corentin  fol- 
lowed her  with  his  eyes,  showing  in  his  countenance  a 
silent  consciousness  of  the  fated  superiority  which,  as 
he  thought,  he  could  exercise  over  this  charming  creat- 
ure, by  governing  the  passions  on  which  he  counted  to 
make  her  one  day  his.  When  Mile,  de  Verneuil  got 
home  she  began  eagerly  to  meditate  on  her  ball-dresses. 
Francine,  accustomed  to  obey  without  ever  comprehend- 
ing her  mistress'  objects,  rummaged  the  band-boxes,  and 
proposed  a  Greek  costume — everything  at  that  time 
obeyed  the  Greek  influence.  The  dress  which  Marie 
settled  upon  would  travel  in  a  box  easy  to  carry. 

"Francine,  my  child,  I  am  going  to  make  a  country 
excursion.  Make  up  your  mind  whether  you  will  stay 
here  or  come  with  me." 

"Stay  here!  "  cried  Francine;    "and  who  is  to  dress  you?  " 

"Where  did  you  put  the  glove  which  I  gave  you  back 
this  morning?" 


288  THE    CHOUANS. 

"Here  it  is." 

"Sew  a  green  ribbon  in  it;  and,  above  all,  take  money 
with  you."  But  when  she  saw  that  Francine  had  in  her 
hands  newly  coined  pieces,  she  cried,  "You  have  only  to- 
do  that  if  you  want  to  get  us  murdered!  Send  Jeremy 
to  wake  Coreniin;  but  no — the  wretch  would  follow  us. 
Send  to  the  c^imandant  instead,  to  ask  him,  from  me, 
for  crowns  of  six  francs." 

Marie  thought  of  everything  with  that  woman's  wit 
which  takes  in  the  smallest  details.  While  Francine  was 
finishing  the  preparations  for  her  unintelligible  depart- 
ure, she  set  herself  to  attempt  the  imitation  of  the  owl's 
hoot,  and  succeeded  in  counterfeiting  Marche-a-Terre's 
signal  so  as  to  deceive  anybody.  As  midnight  struck 
she  sallied  from  the  Porte  Saint  Leonard,  gained  the 
little  path  on  the  Nid-aux-Crocs,  and,  followed  by 
Francine,  ventured  across  the  valley  of  Gibarry,  walk- 
ing with  a  steady  step,  for  she  was  inspired  by  that 
strong  will  which  imparts  to  the  gait  and  to  the  body  an 
air  of  power.  How  to  leave  a  ball-room  without  catch- 
ing a  cold  is  for  women  an  important  matter;  but  let 
them  feel  passion  in  their  hearts,  and  their  body  becomes 
as  it  were  of  bronze.  It  might  have  taken  even  a  dar- 
ing man  a  long  time  to  resolve  on  the  undertaking,  yet 
it  had  scarcely  showed  its  first  aspect  to  Mile,  de  Ver- 
neuil  when  its  dangers  became  attractions  for  her. 

"You  are  going  without  commending  yourself  to  God!  " 
said  Francine,  who  had  turned  back  to  gaze  at  Saint 
Leonard's  steeple. 

The  pious  Breton  girl  halted,  clasped  her  hands,  and 
said  an  Ave  to  Saint  Anne  of  Auray,  begging  her  to  bless 
the  journey;  while  her  mistress  stood  lost  in  thought, 
looking  by  turns  at  the  simple. attitude  of  her  maid,  who 
was  praying  fervently,  and  at  the  effects  of  the  misty 


A   DAY   WITHOUT  A   MORROW.  289 

moonlight  which,  gliding  through  the  carved  work  of 
the  church,  gave  to  the  granite  the  lightness  of  filigree. 
The  two  travelers  lost  no  time  in  reaching  Galope- 
Chopine's  hut;  but  light  as  was  the  sound  of  their 
steps,  it  woke  one  of  the  large  dogs  to  whose  fidelity 
the  Bretons  commit  the  guardianship  of  the  plain 
wooden  latch  which  shuts  their  doors.  The  dog  ran  up 
to  the  two  strangers,  and  his  bark  became  so  threatening 
that  they  were  obliged  to  cry  for  help  and  retrace  their 
steps  some  way.  But  nothing  stirred.  Mile,  de  Ver- 
neuil  whistled  the  owl's  hoot;  at  once  the  rusty  door- 
hinges  creaked  sharply  in  answer,  and  Galope-Chopine, 
who  had  hastily  risen,  showed  his  sombre  face. 

"I  have  need,"  said  Marie,  presenting  Montauran's 
glove  to  the  surveillant  of  Fougeres,  "to  travel  quickly  to 
Saint  James.  The  Count  de  Bauvan  told  me  that  you 
would  act  as  my  guide  and  protector  thither.  There- 
fore, my  dear  Galope-Chopine,  get  us  two  donkeys  to 
ride,  and  be  ready  to  bear  us  company.  Time  is  pre- 
cious, for  if  we  do  not  reach  Saint  James  before  to- 
morrow evening,  we  shall  see  neither  the  Gars  nor  the 
ball." 

Galope-Chopine  took  the  glove  with  a  puzzled  air, 
turned  it  this  way  and  that,  and  kindled  a  candle,  made 
of  resin,  as  thick  as  the  little  finger  and  of  the  color  of 
gingerbread.  These  wares,  imported  into  Brittany  from 
the  north  of  Europe,  show,  like  everything  that  meets 
the  eye  in  this  strange  country,  ignorance  of  even  the 
commonest  commercial  principles.  After  inspecting 
the  green  ribbon,  and  staring  at  Mile,  de  Verneuil, 
after  scratching  his  ear,  after  drinking  a  pitcher  of  cider 
himself  and  offering  a  glass  of  it  to  the  fair  lady, 
Galope-Chopine  left  her  before  the  table,  on  the  bench 
of  polished  chestnut-wood,  and  went  to  seek  two  donkeys. 


2QO  THE    CHOUANS. 

The  deep  blue  light  which  the  outlandish  candle  cast 
was  not  strong  enough  to  master  the  fantastic  play  of 
the  moonbeams  that  varied  with  dots  of  light  the  dark 
colorings  of  the  floor  and  furniture  of  the  smoky  cabin. 
The  little  boy  had  raised  his  startled  head,  and  just 
above  his  fair  hair  two  cows  showed,  through  the  holes 
in  the  stable-wall,  their  pink  muzzles  and  their  great, 
flashing  eyes.  The  big  dog,  whose  countenance  was  not 
the  least  intelligent  of  the  family  group,  appeared  to  be 
examining  the  two  strangers  with  a  curiosity  equal  to 
that  of  the  child.  A  painter  might  have  spent  a  long  time 
in  admiring  the  effects  of  this  night-piece;  but  Marie, 
not.  anxious  to  enter  into  talk  with  Barbette,  who  was 
sitting  up  in  bed  like  a  spectre,  and  began  to  open  her 
eyes  very  wide  as  she  recognized  her  visitor,  went  out 
to  escape  at  once  the  pestiferous  air  of  the  hovel,  and 
the  questions  which  "La  Becaniere"  was  likely  to  put  to 
her.  She  climbed  with  agility  the  staircase  up  the  rock 
which  sheltered  Galope-Chopine's  hut,  and  admired  the 
vast  assembly  of  details  in  a  landscape  where  the  point 
of  view  changed  with  every  step  forwards  or  backwards, 
upwards  or  downwards.  At  the  moment  the  moonlight 
enveloped  the  valley  of  the  Couesnon  as  with  luminous 
fog,  and  sure  enough  a  woman  who  carried  slighted 
love  in  her  heart  must  have  relished  the  melancholy 
which  this  soft  light  produces  in  the  soul  by  the  fantastic 
shapes  which  it  impresses  on  solid  bodies,  and  the  tints 
which  it  throws  upon  the  waters.  Then  the  silence  was 
broken  by  the  bray  of  the  asses.  Marie  quickly  descended 
to  the  Chouan's  hut,  and  they  set  off  at  once.  Galope- 
Chopine,  who  was  armed  with  a  double-barreled  fowling- 
piece,  wore  a  goatskin,  which  gave  him  the  appearance 
of  Robinson  Crusoe.  His  wrinkled  and  pimpled  counte- 
nance was  scarcely  visible  under  the  broad  hat  which 


A    DAY   WITHOUT   A   MORROW. 


2QI 


the  peasants  still  keep  as  a  vestige  of  old  time,  feeling 
pride  at  having  gained,  in  spite  of  their  serfdom,  the 
sometime  decoration  of  lordly  heads.  This  nocrurnal 
procession,  guarded  by  a  guide  whose  dress,  attitude, 
and  general  appearance  had  something  patriarchal, 
resembled  the  scene  of  the  Flight  into  Egypt,  which  we. 
owe  to  the  sombre  pencil  of  Rembrandt.  Galope- 


Chopine  avoided  the  highway  with  care,  and  guided  the 
travelers  through  the  vast  labyrinth  of  the  Breton  cross- 
roads. 

Then  Mile,  de  Verneuil  began  to  understand  the 
Chouan  fashion  of  warfare.  As  she  traversed  these 
roads  she  could  better  appreciate  the  real  condition  of 
districts  which,  seen  from  above,  had  appeared  to  her 


2Q2  THE    CHOUANS. 

so  charming,  but  which  must  be  penetrated  in  order  to 
grasp  their  danger  and  their  inextricable  difficulty. 
Around  each  field  the  peasants  have  raised,  time  out  of 
mind,  an  earthen  wall,  six  feet  high,  of  the  form  of  a 
truncated  pyramid,  on  the  top  whereof  chestnut  trees, 
oaks,  and  beeches  grow.  This  wall,  planted  after  such 
a  fashion,  is  called  a  "hedge" — the  Norman  style  of 
hedge — and  the  long  branches  of  the  trees  which  crown 
it,  flung,  as  they  almost  always  are,  over  the  pathway, 
make  a  huge  arbor  overhead.  The  roadways,  gloomily 
walled  in  by  these  clay  banks  or  walls,  have  a  strong 
resemblance  to  the  fosse  of  a  fortress,  and  when  the 
granite,  which  in  this  country  almost  always  crops  up 
flush  with  the  surface  of  the  ground,  does  not  compose 
a  kind  of  uneven  pavement,  they  become  so  impassable 
that  the  smallest  cart  cannot  travel  over  them  without 
the  help  of  a  pair  of  oxen  or  horses,  small  but  gener- 
ally stout.  These  roads  are  so  constantly  muddy  that 
custom  has  established  for  foot  passengers  a  path  inside 
the  field  and  along  the  hedge — a  path  called  a  rote,  begin- 
ning and  ending  with  each  holding  of  land.  In  order  to 
get  from  one  field  to  another  it  is  thus  necessary  to 
climb  the  hedge  by  means  of  several  steps,  which  the 
rain  often  makes  slippery  enough. 

But  these  were  by  no  means  the  only  obstacles  which 
travelers  had  to  overcome  in  these  tortuous  lanes.  Each 
piece  of  land,  besides  being  fortified  in  the  manner 
described,  has  a  regular  entrance  about  ten  feet  wide, 
and  crossed  by  what  is  called  in  the  west  an  tchalier. 
This  is  the  trunk  or  a  stout  branch  of  a  tree,  one  end  of 
which,  drilled  through,  fits,  as  it  were,  into  a  handle 
composed  of  another  piece  of  shapeless  wood  serving/as 
a  pivot.  The  extreme  butt  end  of  the  tchalier  extends  a 
little;  beyond  the  pivot,  so  as  to  be  able  to  carry  a  heavy 


A   DAY   WITHOUT   A   MORROW.  293 

burden  in  the  shape  of  a  counter-weight,  and  to  allow 
even  a  child  to  work  this  strange  kind  of  country  gate. 
The  other  end  of  it  rests  in  a  hole  made  on  the  inside  of 
the  hedge.  Sometimes  the  peasants  economize  the 
counter-weight  stone  by  letting  the  heavy  end  of  the 
trunk  or  branch  hang  over.  The  style  of  the  barrier  is 
altered  according  to  the  fancy  of  each  owner.  It  often 
consists  of  a  single  branch,  the  two  ends  of  which  are 
socketed  into  the  hedge  by  earth;  often  also  it  looks  like 
a  square  gate  built  up  of  several  thin  branches  fixed  at 
intervals  like  the  rungs  of  a  ladder  set  crosswise.  This 
gate  turns  like  the  tchalicr  itself,  and  its  other  end  plays 
on  a  small  wheel  of  solid  wood.  These  hedges  and 
gates  give  the  ground  the  appearance  of  a  huge  chess- 
board, each  field  of  which  makes  an  inclosure  completely 
isolated  from  the  rest,  walled  in  like  a  fortress,  and 
like  it  possessing  ramparts.  The  gate,  easy  to  defend, 
gives  the  assailant  the  least  easy  of  all  conquests;  for 
the  Breton  peasant  thinks  that  he  fertilizes  his  fallows 
by  allowing  them  to  grow  huge  broom  bushes — a  shrub 
which  finds  such  congenial  treatment  in  this  district  that 
it  soon  grows  to  the  height  of  a  man.  This  notion — 
worthy  of  people  who  put  their  manure  on  the  highest 
patch  of  their  farm-yards — keeps  upon  the  soil,  in  one 
field  out  of  every  four,  forests  of  broom,  in  the  midst  of 
which  all  manner  of  ambuscades  can  be  arranged.  And, 
to  conclude,  there  is  hardly  a  field  where  there  are  not 
some  old  cider-apple  trees  dropping  their  branches  low 
over  it  and  killing  the  crops  which  they  cover.  Thus, 
if  the  reader  will  remember  how  small  the  fields  are 
where  every  hedge  supports  far  ranging  trees,  whose 
greedy  roots  monopolize  a  fourth  of  the  ground,  he  will 
have  an  idea  of  the  agricultural  arrangement  and  general 


294  THE    CHOUANS. 

appearance  of  the  country  which  Mile,  de  Verneuil  was 
now  traversing. 

It  is  difficult  to  say  whether  anxiety  to  avoid  disputes 
about  title,  or  the  custom,  dear  to  laziness,  of  shutting 
in  cattle  without  having  to  herd  them,  has  most  to  do 
with  the  construction  of  these  formidable  inclosures, 
whose  enduring  obstacles  make  the  country  impenetrable, 
and  forbid  all  war  with  large  bodies  of  men.  When  the 
lie  of  the  ground  has  been  examined  step  by  step,  it  is 
clear  what  must  be  the  fated  ill-success  of  a  war  between 
regular  and  irregular  troops;  for  five  hundred  men  might 
laugh  at  the  army  of  a  kingdom.  In  this  was  the  whole 
secret  of  the  Chouan  war.  And  Mile,  de  Verneuil  at 
once  understood  the  need  which  the  Republic  had  of  sti- 
fling disorder  by  means  of  police  and  diplomacy  rather 
than  by  the  useless  use  of  military  force.  What  could 
be  done,  indeed,  against  men  clever  enough  to  scorn  the 
holding  of  towns,  and  make  sure  of  holding  the  country, 
with  its  indestructible  fortifications?  How  do  aught  but 
negotiate,  when  the  whole  strength  of  these  blinded 
peasants  lay  in  a  skillful  and  enterprising  chief?  She 
admired  the  genius  of  the  minister  who  had  guessed  in 
his  study  the  secret  of  peace;  she  thought  she  could  see 
the  considerations  working  on  men  powerful  enough  to 
hold  a  whole  empire  under  their  glance,  and  whose 
deeds,  criminal  to  the  vulgar  eye,  are  only  the  work- 
ings of  a  vast  thought.  These  awe-inspiring  souls  are 
divided,  one  knows  not  how,  between  the  power  of  fate 
and  destiny,  and  they  possess  a  foresight  the  first  evi- 
dence of  which  exalts  them.  The  crowd  looks  for 
them  amongst  itself,  then  lifts  its  eyes  and  sees  them 
soaring  above  it.  This  consideration  appeared  to  justify 
and  even  to  ennoble  the  thoughts  of  vengeance  which 
Mile,  de  Verneuil  had  formed;  and  in  consequence  her 


A   DAY  WITHOUT   A  MORROW. 


295 


reflections  and  her  hopes 
gave  her  energy  enough 
to  bear  the  unwonted 
fatigues  of  her  journey. 
At  the  end  of  each  prop- 
erty Galope-Chopine  was 
obliged  to  make  the  two 
travelers  dismount  and 
to  help  them  to  climb 
the  difficult  stiles;  while, 
when  the  rotes  came  to 


an  end,   they  had   to 
get    into    the  saddle 
.-  .  again      and     venture 
into  the  muddy  lanes, 
which    already    gave 
tokens     of     the     ap- 
proach of  winter.      The  joint  action  of 


296  THE    CHOUANS. 

the  great  trees,  of  the  hollow  ways,  and  of  the  field 
inclosures,  kept  up  in  the  lower  grounds  a  dampness 
which  often  wrapped  the  travelers  as  in  a  cloak  of  ice. 
After  toilsome  exertions  they  reached  by  sunrise  the 
woods  of  Marignay,  and  the  journey  in  the  wide  forest 
path  then  became  less  difficult.  The  vault  of  branches 
and  the  thickness  of  the'tree-trunks  sheltered  the  voy- 
agers from  the  inclemency  of  the  sky,  and  the  manifold 
difficulties  which  they  had  at  first  to  surmount  disap- 
peared. 

They  had  scarcely  journeyed  a  league  across  the  wood 
when  they  heard  afar  off  a  confused  murmur  of  voices 
and  the  sound  of  a  bell,  whose  silvery  tinkle  was  free 
from  the  monotonous  tone  given  by  cattle  as  they  walk. 
As  he  went  along,  Galope-Chopine  listened  to  this 
music  with  much  attention,  and  soon  a  gust  of  wind 
brought  to  his  ear  a  snatch  of  psalmody  which  seemed 
to  produce  a  great  effect  on  him.  He  at  once  drove  the 
weary  beasts  into  a  path  diverging  from  that  which 
would  lead  the  travelers  to  Saint  James;  and  he  turned 
a  deaf  ear  to  the  representations  of  Mile,  de  Verneuil, 
whose  fears  increased  with  the  gloomy  character  of  the 
landscape. 

To  right  and  left  huge  granite  rocks,  piled  the  one 
on  the  other,  presented  singular  outlines,  while  between 
them  enormous  roots  crawled,  like  great  snakes,  in 
search  of  distant  nourishment  for  immemorial  beeches. 
The  two  sides  of  the  road  resembled  those  subterranean 
grottoes  which  are  famous  for  their  stalactites.  Vast 
festoons  of  ivy,*  among  which  the  dark  verdure  of  holly 
and  of  heath  mingled  with  the  greenish  or  whitish 
patches  of  moss,  veiled  the  crags  and  the  entrance  of 


*  The   text   has  pierrc,    which   is   nonsense.     Lierre    is   certissima.  eniendatio.- 

'''ranslator's  Xote. 


A    DAY  WITHOUT  A   MORROW.  297 

some  deep  caves.  When  the  three  travelers  had  gone 
some  steps  in  a  narrow  path  a  most  surprising  spectacle 
presented  itself  to  Mile,  de  Verneuil's  eyes,  and  ex- 
plained to  her  Galope-Chopine's  obstinacy. 

A  semi-circular  basin,  wholly  composed  of  masses  of 
granite,  formed  an  amphitheatre  on  whose  irregular  tiers 
tall  black  pines  and  yellowing  chestnuts  rose  one  above 
the  other  like  a  great  circus,  into  which  the  wintry  sun 
seemed  rather  to  instill  a  pale  coloring  than  to  pour  its 
light,  and  where  autumn  had  already  thrown  the  tawny 
carpet  of  its  withered  leaves  on  all  sides.  In  the  middle 
of  this  hall,  which  seemed  to  have  had  the  deluge  for 
its  architect,  there  rose  three  enormous  druidic  stones, 
composing  a  vast  altar,  upon  which  was  fastened  an  old 
church  banner.  Some  hundred  men  knelt,  bareheaded 
and  fervently  praying,  in  the  inclosure,  while  a  priest, 
assisted  by  two  other  ecclesiastics,  was  saying  mass. 
The  shabbiness  of  the  sacred  vestments,  the  thin  voice 
of  the  priest,  which  scarcely  murmured  an  echo  through 
space,  the  devout  congregation  unanimous  in  sentiment, 
and  prostrate  before  an  altar  devoid  of  pomp,  the  cross 
bare  of  ornament,  the  stern  rusticity  of  the  temple,  the 
hour,  the  place — all  gave  to  the  scene  the  character  of 
simplicity  which  distinguished  the  early  ages  of  Chris- 
tianity. Mile,  de  Verneuil  was  and  remained  struck 
with  admiration.  This  mass,  said  in  the  heart  of  the 
woods;  this  worship,  driven  by  persecution  back  to  its 
own  sources ;  this  poetry  of  ancient  times  boldly  con- 
trasted with  natural  surroundings  of  fantastic  strange- 
ness; these  Chouans  at  once  armed  and  unarmed,  cruel  and 
devout,  childlike  and  manly — the  whole  scene,  in  short, 
was  unlike  anything  that  she  had  before  seen  or  imag- 
ined. She  remembered  well  enough  that  in  her  child- 
hood she  had  admired  the  pomp  of  the  Roman  Church, 


298  THE    CHOUANS. 

which  appeals  so  cunningly  to  the  senses;  but  she  had 
never  yet  seen  God  alone,  His  cross  on  the  altar,  His 
altar  on  the  bare  ground,  the  autumn  trees  supporting 
the  dome  of  heaven  in  place  of  the  fretted  moldings 
which  crown  the  Gothic  arches  of  cathedrals,  the  sun 
stealing  with  difficulty  its  ruddy  rays  and  duller  reflec- 
tions upon  the  altar,  the  priest  and  the  congregation, 
instead  of  the  thousand  hues  flung  by  stained  glass. 
Here  men  represented  a  fact,  and  not  a  system ;  here  was 
prayer,  and  not  formality.  But  human  passions,  whose 
momentary  suppression  gave  the  picture  all  its  harmony, 
soon  reappeared  in  this  scene  of  mystery,  and  infused  in 
it  a  powerful  animation. 

The  gospel  was  drawing  to  a  close  as  Mile,  de  Ver- 
neuil  came  up.  With  no  small  alarm  she  recognized  in 
the  celebrant  the  Abb6  Gudin,  and  hid  herself  quickly 
from  his  sight,  availing  herself  of  a  huge  fragment  of 
granite  for  a  hiding-place,  into  which  she  briskly  drew 
Francine.  But  she  tried  in  vain  to  tear  Galope-Chopine 
from  the  place  which  he  had  chosen  in  order  to  share  in 
the  advantages  of  the  ceremony.  She  entertained,  how- 
ever, hopes  of  being  able  to  escape  the  danger  which 
threatened  her,  when  she  noticed  that  the  nature  of  the 
ground  gave  her  the  opportunity  of  withdrawing  before 
the  rest  of  the  congregation.  By  the  help  of  a  wide 
crack  in  the  rock  she  could  see  Abb£  Gudin  mounting  a 
mass  of  granite  which  served  him  as  pulpit.  He  began 
his  sermon  in  these  terms: 

"///  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and  of  the 
Holy  Ghost!" 

At  which  words  the  whole  congregation  piously  made 
ihe  sign  of  the  cross. 

"My  dear  brethren,"  the  abb£  went  on  in  a  loud 
voice,  "let  us  first  pray  for  the  dead — Jean  Cochegrue, 


A  DAY   WITHOUT  A   MORROW-  299 

Nicolas  Laferte,  Joseph  Brouet,  Francois  Parquoi,  Sul- 
pice  Coupiau — all  of  this  parish,  who  died  of  the  wounds 
they  received  at  the  fight  on  the  Pilgrim  and  at  the  siege 
of  Fougeres. " 

Then  was  recited  the  "De  Profundis, "  according  to 
custom,  by  the  congregation  and  the  priest  antiphonally, 
and  with  a  fervor  which  gave  good  augury  of  the  success 
of  the  preaching.  When  this  psalm  for  the  dead  was 
finished,  Abbe  Gudin  went  on  in  a  voice  of  ever-increas- 
ing strength,  for  the  old  Jesuit  did  not  forget  that  energy 
of  delivery  was  the  most  powerful  of  arguments  to  per- 
suade his  uncultivated  hearers. 

"Christians!  "  he  said,  "these  champions  of  God  have 
set  you  an  example  of  your  duty.  Are  you  not  ashamed 
of  what  they  may  be  saying  of  you  in  Paradise?  But 
for  those  blessed  ones,  who  must  have  been  received 
there  with  open  arms  by  all  the  Saints,  our  Lord  might 
believe  that  your  parish  is  inhabited  by  followers  of 
Mahound!*  Do  you  know,  my  gars,  what  they  say  of 
you  in  Brittany  and  at  Court?  You  do  not  know  it,  do 
you?  Then,  I  will  tell  you;  they  say:  'What!  the 
Blues  have  thrown  down  the  altars;  they  have  killed  the 
rectors;  they  have  murdered  the  King  and  the  Queen;  they 
would  fain  take  all  the  parishioners  of  Brittany  to  make 
Blues  of  them  like  themselves,  and  send  them  to  fight 
far  from  their  parishes,  in  distant  lands,  where  men  run 
the  risk  of  dying  without  confession,  and  so  going  to 
hell  for  all  eternity.  And  do  the  gars  of  Marignay, 
whose  church  they  have  burned,  stay  with  their  arms 
dangling  by  their  sides?  Oh!  oh!  This  Republic  of 
the  damned  has  sold  the  goods  of  God  and  the  seigneurs 
by  auction;  it  has  shared  the  price  among  its  Blues,  and 
now,  in  order  to  feast  on  money  as  it  has  feasted  on  blood, 


Mahumttisches. —  Translator's  Note. 


30O  THE    CHOUANS. 

it  has  just  resolved  to  take  three  livres  on  each  crown  of 
six  francs,  just  as  it  levies  three  men  out  of  every  six. 
And  have  not  the  gars  of  Marignay  caught  up  their  guns 
to  drive  the  Blues  out  of  Brittany?  Aha!  The  door  of 
Paradise  shall  be  shut  on  them,  and  they  shall  never 
again  be  able  to  gain*  salvation.'  That  is  what  they  are 
saying  of  you.  So,  Christian  brethren,  it  is  your  sal- 
vation which  is  at  stake:  you  will  save  your  souls  by 
fighting  for  the  faith  and  for  the  King.  Saint  Anne  of 
Auray  herself  appeared  to  me  yesterday  at  half -past 
two.  She  said  to  me,  just  as  I  tell  it  to  you,  'You  are 
a  priest  of  Marignay?'  Yes,  madame,  at  your  service. 
'Well,  then,  I  am  Saint  Anne  of  Auray,  aunt  of  God 
after  the  fashion  of  Brittany.  I  am  still  at  Auray,  but  I 
am  here,  too,  because  I  have  come  to  bid  you  tell  the 
gars  of  Marignay  that  they  have  no  salvation  to  hope  for 
if  they  do  not  take  up  arms.  Therefore  you  shall  refuse 
them  absolution  of  their  sins  if  they  will  not  serve 
God.  You  shall  bless  their  guns,  and  those  gars  who 
are  sinless  shall  not  miss  the  Blues,  because  their  guns 
are  holy.'  And  she  disappeared,  leaving  a  smell  of 
incense  under  the  Goosefoot  Oak.  I  made  a  mark  at  the 
spot,  and  the  rector  of  Saint  James  has  put  up  a  fair 
wooden  Virgin  there.  What  is  more,  the  mother  of 
Pierre  Leroy,  called  Marche-a-Terre,  came  to  pray  there 
in  the  evening,  and  was  cured  of  her  pains  because  of 
her  son's  good  works.  There  she  is,  in  the  midst  of  you, 
and  you  can  see  her  with  your  own  eyes  walking  alone. 
This  miracle  has  been  done,  like  the  resurrection  of 
the  blessed  Marie  Lambrequin,  to  show  you  that  God 
will  never  desert  the  cause  of  Bretons  when  they  fight 
for  His  servants  and  for  the  King.  Therefore,  dear 
brethren,  if  you  would  save  your  souls,  and  show  your- 
selves champions  of  your  lord  the  King,  you  must  obey 


A   DAY  WITHOUT  A   MORROW.  301 

the  orders  of  him  whom  the  King  has  sent,  and  whom 
we  call  the  Gars.  Then  shall  you  no  more  be  like 
the  followers  of  Mahound,  and  men  will  find  you  with 
all  the  gars  of  all  Brittany,  under  the  banner  of  God. 
You  can  take  back  out  of  the  Blues'  pockets  all  the 
money  they  have  stolen;  for  if,  while  you  fight,  your 
fields  be  not  sown,  the  Lord  and  the  King  make  over  to 
you  the  spoils  of  your  enemies.  Shall  it  be  said, 
Christian  brethren,  that  the  gars  of  Marignay  are  be- 
hind the  gars  of  Morbihan,  of  Saint  Georges,  of  Vitre, 
of  Antrain,  who  are  all  serving  God  and  the  King?  Will 
you  leave  them  all  the  booty?  Will  you  stay  like  here- 
tics, with  folded  arms,  while  so  many  Bretons  secure 
their  salvation  and  serve  their  King?  'Ye  shall  give 
up  all  for  me,'  the  Gospel  says.  Have  not  we  already 
given  up  the  tithes?  Do  you,  then,  give  up  all  in  order 
to  make  this  holy  war!  You  shall  be  like  the  Mac- 
cabees; all  your  sins  shall  be  forgiven  you:  you  shall 
find  your  rectors  and  their  curates  in  your  midst;  and 
you  shall  triumph!  Pay  attention  to  this,  Christian 
brethren,"  concluded  he;  "to-day,  to-day  only  we  have  the 
power  of  blessing  your  guns.  Those  who  do  not  avail 
themselves  of  this  grace  will  not  find  the  Holy  One  of 
Auray  so  merciful  another  time;  and  she  will  not  listen 
to  them  as  she  did  in  the  last  war!  " 

This  sermon,  supported  by  the  thunder  of  obstreperous 
lungs  and  by  a  variety  of  gesticulations  which  made  the 
speaker  perspire,  had  in  appearance  little  effect.  The 
peasants,  standing  motionless,  with  eyes  riveted  on  the 
orator,  looked  like  statues.  But  Mile,  de  Verneuil  soon 
perceived  that  this  general  attitude  was  the  result  of  the 
spell  which  the  abb£  had  cast  over  the  crowd.  He  had, 
like  all  great  actors,  swayed  his  whole  auditory  as  one 
nun  by  appealing  to  their  interests  and  their  passions. 


3°2 


THE   CHOUANS. 


Had  he  not  given  them  absolution  for  their  excesses 
beforehand,  and  cast  loose  the  ties  which  still  kept  these 
wild  men  to  the  observance  of  social  and  religious  laws? 
True,  he  had  prostituted  his  priesthood  to  political  pur- 
poses; buf  in  these  times  of  revolution  each  man  made 


what  he  had  a  weapon  in  the  cause  of  his  party,  and  the 
peace-giving  cross  of  Jesus  was  beaten  into  a  sword  as 
well  as  the  food-giving  ploughshare.  As  she  saw  no 
being  before  her  who  could  enter  into  her  feelings,  she 
turned  to  Francine,  and  was  not  a  little  surprised  to  see 


A   DAY   WITHOUT   A   MORROW.  303 

her  sharing  the  enthusiasm  and  telling  her  beads 
devoutly  on  the  rosary  of  Galope-Chopine,  who  had  no 
doubt  lent  it  to  her  during  the  sermon. 

"Francine, "  she  said  in  a  low  tone,  "are  you,  too, 
afraid  of  being  a  Mahumttisehet" 

"Oh,  mademoiselle!"  replied  the  Breton  girl,  "look  at 
Pierre's  mother  walking  there!  "  And  Francine's  attitude 
showed  such  profound  conviction  that  Marie  understood 
at  once  the  secret  of  this  preaching,  the  influence  of  the 
clergy  in  the  country  districts,  and  the  wonderful  results 
of  such  scenes  as  now  began.  The  peasants  nearest  to 
the  altar  advanced  one  by  one  and  knelt  down,  present- 
ing their  pieces  to  the  preacher,  who  laid  them  on  the 
altar,  Galope-Chopine  being  one  of  the  first  to  offer  his 
old  duck  gun.  The  three  priests  then  chanted  the  hymn 
Vcni  Creator,  wJiile  the  celebrant  enveloped  the  murder- 
ous implements  in  a  cloud  of  bluish  incense  smoke, 
weaving  what  seemed  interlaced  patterns  with  it.  As 
soon  as  the  wind  had  dissipated  this  smoke,  the  guns 
were  given  back  in  succession,  and  each  man  received 
his  own,  kneeling,  from  the  hands  of  the  priests,  who 
recited  a  Latin  prayer  as  they  returned  the  pieces. 
When  the  armed  men  had  returned  to  their  places,  the 
deep  enthusiasm  of  the  congregation,  speechless  till  then, 
broke  out  in  a  manner  at  once  terrible  and  touching. 

Do  mine,  salvum  fac  re  gem! 

Such  was  the  prayer  which  the  preacher  thundered 
with  echoing  voice,  and  which  was  sung  twice  over  with 
vehement  shouts  which  were  at  once  wild  and  warlike. 
The  two  notes  of  the  word  rcgcm,  which  the  peasants 
translated  without  difficulty,  were  poured  out  with  such 
energy  that  Mile,  de  Verneuil  could  not  help  thinking 
with  emotion  of  the  exiled  Bourbons.  Their  memory 
evoked  that  of  her  own  past  life,  and  she  recalled  the 


304  THE    CHOUANS. 

festivities  of  the  Court,  now  scattered  far  and  wide,  but 
in  which  she  herself  had  been  a  star.  The  form  of  the 
marquis  intruded  itself  into  this  reverie,  and  with  the 
rapid  change  of  thought  natural  to  women,  she  forgot  the 
spectacle  before  her,  and  returned  to  her  projects  of 
vengeance — projects  where  life  was  at  stake,  and  which 
might  be  wrecked  by  a  glance.  While  meditating  how 
to  make  herself  beautiful  in  this  the  most  critical 
moment  of  her  existence,  she  remembered  that  she  had 
nothing  to  wear  in  her  hair  at  the  ball,  and  was  enticed 
by  the  notion  of  wearing  a  holly  branch — the  crinkled 
leaves  and  scarlet  berries  of  which  caught  her  attention 
at  the  moment. 

"Aha!  "  said  Galope-Chopine,  nodding  his  head  con- 
tentedly, "my  gun  may  miss  if  I  fire  at  birds  now,  but  at 
Blues,  never!  " 

Marie  looked  more  curiously  at  her  guide's  face,  and 
found  it  typical  of  all  those  she  had  just  seen.  The  old 
Chouan  seemed  to  be  more  destitute  of  ideas  than  an 
average  child.  His  cheeks  and  brow  wrinkled  with 
simple  joy  as  he  looked  at  his  gun;  but  the  expression 
'of  this  joy  was  tinged  with  a  fanaticism  which  for  a 
moment  gave  his  savage  countenance  a  touch  of  the 
faults  of  civilization. 

Soon  they  reached  a  village,  or  rather  a  collection  of 
four  or  five  dwellings  resembling  that  of  Galope-Chopine; 
and  the  newly-recruited  Chouans  arrived  there  while 
Mile,  de  Verneuil  was  finishing  a  meal  composed  solely 
of  bread,  butter,  milk,  and  cheese.  This  irregular  band 
was  led  by  the  rector,  who  held  in  his  hand  a  rude 
cross  in  guise  of  a  standard,  and  was  followed  by  a  gars, 
proud  of  his  post  as  parish  ensign.  Mile,  de  Verneuil 
found  it  necessary  to  join  this  detachment,  which  was, 
like  herself,  making  for  Saint  James,  and  which  pro- 


A   DAY   WITHOUT  A   MORROW.  305 

tected  her,  as  a  matter  of  course,  from  all  danger  from  the 
moment  when  Galope-Chopine,  with  lucky  indiscretion, 
told  the  leader  that  the  pretty  garce  whom  he  was  guid- 
ing was  a  dear  friend  of  the  Gars. 

About  sunset  the  travelers  arrived  at  Saint  James,  a 
little  town  owing  its  name  to  the  English  who  built  it 
in  the  fourteenth  century,  when  they  were  masters  of 
Brittany.  Before  entering  it,  Mile,  de  Verneuil  wit- 
nessed a  singular  military  spectacle,  to  which  she  paid 
little  attention,  fearing  to  be  recognized  by  some  of  her 
enemies,  and  hastening  her  steps  owing  to  this  fear. 
Five  or  six  thousand  peasants  were  encamped  in  a  field. 
Their  costumes,  which  pretty  closely  resembled  those  of 
the  requisitionaries  at  the  Pilgrim,  had  nothing  in  the 
least  warlike  about  them;  and  their  tumultuous  assembly 
was  like  that  at  a  great  fair.  It  was  even  needful  to 
look  somewhat  narrowly  in  order  to  discover  that  these 
Bretons  were  armed,  for  their  goatskins,  differently 
arranged  as  they  were,  almost  hid  their  guns,  and  their 
most  visible  weapon  was  the  scythe  with  which  some  sup- 
plied the  place  of  the  guns  which  were  to  be  served  out 
to  them.  Some  ate  and  drank;  some  fought  or  loudly 
wrangled;  but  most  of  them  lay  asleep  on  the  ground. 
There  was  no  semblance  of  order  or  of  discipline.  An 
officer  in  red  uniform  caught  Mile,  de  Verneuil's  eye*,  and 
she  supposed  that  he  must  be  in  the  English  service. 
Further  off,  two  other  officers  seemed  to  be  trying  to 
instruct  some  Chouans,  more  intelligent  than  the  rest,  in 
the  management  of  two  cannon  which  appeared  to  con- 
stitute the  whole  park  of  artillery  of  the  Royalist  army 
that  was  to  be.  The  arrival  of  the  gars  of  Marignay,  who 
were  recognized  by  their  banner,  was  greeted  with  yells 
of  welcome;  and  under  cover  of  the  excitement  which  the 
troop  and  the  rectors  aroused  in  the  camp,  Mile,  de  Ver- 

20 


306  THE    CHOUAN8. 

neuil  was  able  to  cross  it  and  enter  the  town  without 
danger.  She  betook  herself  to  an  inn  of  modest  appear- 
ance, and  not  far  from  the  house  where  the  ball  was  to 
be  held;  but  the  town  was  so  crowded  that,  with  the 
greatest  possible  trouble,  she  could  only  obtain  a  small 
and  inconvenient  room.  When  she  was  established  there, 
and  when  Galope-Chopine  had  handed  to  Francine  the 
band-box  containing  her  mistress'  clothes,  he  remained 
standing  in  an  indescribable  attitude  of  expectancy  and 
irresolution.  At  another  time  Mile,  de  Verneuil  might 
have  amused  herself  with  the  spectacle  of  a  Breton  peas- 
ant out  of  his  own  parish.  But  she  broke  the  spell  by 
taking  from  her  purse  four  crowns  of  six  francs  each, 
which  she  presented  to  him.  "Take  them,"  she  said, 
"and  if  you  will  do  me  a  favor,  go  back  at  once  to 
Fougeres  without  passing  through  the  camp,  and  with- 
out tasting  cider." 

The  Chouan,  astounded  at  such  generosity,  shifted  his 
eyes  by  turns  from  the  crowns  he  had  received  to  Mile, 
de  Verneuil;  but  she  waved  her  hand  and  he  departed. 

"How  can  you  send  him  away,  mademoiselle?"  asked 
Francine.  "Did  you  not  see  how  the  town  was  sur- 
rounded? How  are  we  to  get  away?  And  who  will  pro- 
tect us  here?" 

"Have  you  not  got  a  protector?"  said  Mile,  de  Ver- 
neuil, with  a  low,  mocking  whistle,  after  the  manner  of 
Marche-a-Terre,  whose  ways  she  tried  to  imitate. 

Francine  blushed,  and  smiled  rather  sadly  at  her  mis- 
tress' merriment. 

"But  where  is  your  protector?"  she  said. 

Mile,  de  Verneuil  drew  her  dagger  with  a  brusque  move- 
ment, and  showed  it  to  the  terrified  Breton  girl,  who 
dropped  on  a  chair  with  clasped  hands. 

"What   have   you  come  to  look  for  here,   Marie?"  she 


A  DAY  WITHOUT  A  MORROW.  307 

cried,  in  a  beseeching  voice,  but  one  which  did  not  call 
for  an  answer. 

Mile,  de  Verneuil,  who  was  busying  Herself  in  twisting 
about  the  holly  twigs  she  had  gathered,  said  only,  "I  am 
not  sure  whether  this  holly  will  look  really  well  in  my 
hair.  A  face  must  be  as  bright  as  mine  is  to  endure  so 
dark  a  head-dress.  What  do  you  think,  Francine?" 

Not  a  few  other  remarks  of  the  same  kind  indicated 
that  the  strange  girl  was  perfectly  unconcerned,  as  she 
made  her  toilette;  and  anyone  overhearing  her  would 
have  had  some  difficulty  in  understanding  the  gravity  of 
the  crisis  in  which  she  was  risking  her  life.  A  dress  of 
India  muslin,  rather  short,  and  clinging  like  damp  linen, 
showed  the  delicate  outlines  of  her  shape.  Then  she  put 
on  a  red  overskirt,  whose  folds,  numerous  and  lengthen- 
ing as  they  fell  to  one  side,  had  the  graceful  sweep  of  a 
Greek  tunic.  This  passion-provoking  garment  of  pagan 
priestesses  lessened  the  indelicacy  of  the  costume  which 
the  fashion  of  the  day  permitted  to  women  in  dressing, 
and,  to  reduce  it  still  further,  Marie  threw  a  gauze  veil 
over  her  white  shoulders,  which  the  tunic  left  bare  all 
too  low.  She  twisted  the  long  plaits  of  her  hair  so  as  to 
form  at  the  back  of  her  head  the  truncated  and  flattened 
cone  which,  by  artificially  lengthening  the  head,  gives 
such  grace  to  the  appearance  of  certain  antique  statues, 
while  a  few  curls,  left  loose  above  the  forehead,  fell  on 
each  side  of  her  face  in  long,  glistening  ringlets.  In 
such  a  garb  and  head-dress  she  exactly  resembled  the 
most  famous  masterpieces  of  the  Greek  chisel.  When 
she  had  by  a  smile  signified  her  approbation  of  this 
coiffure,  whose  least  detail  set  off  the  beauties  of  her 
face,  she  placed  on  it  the  holly  wreath  which  she  had 
arranged,  and  the  numerous  scarlet  berries  of  which  hap- 
pily reproduced  in  her  hair  the  shade  of  her  tunic.  As 


308  THE    CHOUANS. 

she  twisted  some  of  the  leaves  so  as  to  make  fantastic 
contrast  between  their  two  sides,  Mile,  de  Verneuil  con- 
templated the  whole  of  her  toilette  in  the  glass  to  judge 
its  effect. 

"I  am  hideous  to-night,"  she  said  (as  if  she  were  in  a 
circle  of  flatterers).  "I  look  like  a  statue  of  Liberty." 

Then  she  carefully  stuck  the  dagger  in  the  center  of 
her  corset,  so  that  the  rubies  of  its  hilt  might  protrude, 
and  by  their  ruddy  reflections  attract  eyes  to  the  beau- 
ties which  her  rival  had  so  unworthily  violated.  Fran- 
cine  could  not  make  up  her  mind  to  quit  her  mistress, 
and  when  she  saw  her  ready  to  start,  she  devised  pre- 
texts for  accompanying  her  out  of  all  the  obstacles 
which  ladies  have  to  overcome  when  they  go  to  a  merry- 
making in  a  little  town  of  Lower  Brittany.  Must  she 
not  be  there  to  relieve  Mile,  de  Verneuil  of  her  cloak, 
of  the  overshoes  which  the  mud  and  dirt  of  the  streets 
made  it  necessary  (though  the  precaution  of  spreading 
gravel  over  them  had  been  taken)  for  her  to  wear,  and  of 
the  gauze  veil  in  which  she  hid  her  head  from  the 
gaze  of  the  Chouans  whom  curiosity  brought  round  the 
house  where  the  festival  took  place?  The  crowd  was 
so  great  that  the  two  girls  walked  between  rows  of 
Chouans.  Francine  made  no  further  attempt  to  keep  her 
mistress  back;  but  having  put  the  last  touches  to  a  toi- 
lette whose  merit  consisted  in  its  extreme  freshness,  she 
remained  in  the  court-yard  that  she  might  not  leave  her 
to  the  chances  of  her  fate  without  being  able  to  fly  to 
her  help;  for  the  poor  girl  foresaw  nothing  but  mis- 
fortune. 

A  sufficiently  curious  scene  was  taking  place  in  Mon- 
tauran's  apartment  while  Marie  made  her  way  to  the 
ball.  The  young  marquis  was  finishing  his  toilette,  and 
putting  on  the  broad  red  ribbon  which  was  to  indicate 


A   DAY   WITHOUT   A    MORROW. 


309 


him  as  the  most  prominent  personage  in  the  assembly, 
when  the  Abb£  Gudin  entered  with  a  troubled  air. 

"My  lord  marquis,"  said  he,  "pray  come  quickly.  You 
alone  can  calm  the  storm  which  has  arisen,  I  hardly 
know  on  what  occasion,  among  our  chiefs.  They  are 
talking  of  quitting  the  King's  service.  I  believe  that 
devil  of  a  Rifoel  to  be  the  cause  of  the  whole  disturb- 
ance, for  brawls  of  this  kind  are  always  brought  about 
by  some  folly.  They  tell  me  that  Madame  du  Gua 
upbraided  him  with  coming  to  the  ball  very  ill  dressed." 

"The  woman  must  be  mad!"  cried ^the  marquis,  "to 
wish — " 

"The  Chevalier  du  Vissard,"  went  on  the  abbe,  cutting 
his  leader  short,  "replied  that  if  you  had  given  him  the 
money  which  was  promised  him  in  the  King's  name — 

"Enough,  abb6,  enough!  I  understand  the  whole 
thing  now.  The  scene  was  arranged  beforehand,  was  it 
not?  and  you  are  the  ambassador — 

"I?"  continued  the  abbe,  interrupting  again;  "I,  my 
lord  marquis?  I  am  going  to  give  you  the  heartiest  sup- 
port, and  I  trust  you  will  do  me  the  justice  to  believe 
that  the  reestablishment  of  our  altars  in  France,  the 
restoration  of  the  King  to  the  throne  of  his  fathers,  are 
far  more  powerful  stimulants  of  my  humble  efforts  than 
that  bishopric  of  Rennes  which  you — 

The  abb£  dared  not  finish,  for  a  bitter  smile  had  come 
.upon  the  marquis'  face.  But  the  young  leader  imme- 
diately choked  down  the  sad  thoughts  which  came  to 
him,  his  brow  assumed  a  stern  look,  and  he  followed  the 
Abbe  Gudin  into  a  room  echoing  with  noisy  clamor. 

"I  acknowledge  no  man's  authority  here!  "  cried  Rifoel, 
casting  fiery  glances  at  all  those  around  him,  and  laying 
his  hand  on  his  sword-hilt. 

"Do  you  acknowledge  the  authority  of  common  sense?" 


31O  THE    CHOUANS. 

asked  the  marquis  coolly.  And  the  young  Chevalier  du 
Vissard,  better  known  by  his  family  name  of  Rifoel,  was 
silent  before  the  commander-in-chief  of  the  Catholic 
armies. 

"What    is    the    matter,    gentlemen?"    said    the    young 
leader,  scrutinizing  the  faces  of  the  company. 

"The  matter  is,  my  lord  marquis,"  answered  a  famous 
smuggler — with  the  awkwardness  of  a  man  of  the  people 
who  is  at  first  hampered  by  the  restraints  of  prejudice  in 
the  presence  of  a  grand  seigneur,  but  who  knows  no 
limits  when  he  tas  once  crossed  the  barrier  which  sepa- 
rates them  and  sees  before  him  only  an  equal — "the 
matter  is  that  you  have  just  come  at  the  nick  of  time. 
I  am  not  good  at  gilded  words;  so  I  will  speak  plumply 
and  plainly.  Throughout  the  last  war  I  commanded  five 
hundred  men.  Since  we  took  up  arms  once  more  I 
have  been  able  to  put  at  the  King's  service  a  thousand 
heads  as  hard  as  my  own.  For  seven  long  years  I  have 
been  risking  my  life  for  the  good  cause.  I  am  not 
throwing  it  in  your  teeth,  but  the  laborer  is  worthy  of 
his  hire.  Therefore,  to  begin  with,  I  would  be  called  M. 
de  Cottereau,  and  I  would  have  the  rank  of  colonel 
accorded  to  me,  otherwise  I  shall  tender  my  submission 
to  the  First  Consul.  You  see,  my  lord  marquis,  I  and  my 
men  have  a  devil  of  a  dunning  creditor  whom  we  must 
satisfy.  He  is  here!  "  he  added,  striking  his  stomach. 
"Has  the  band  come?"  asked  the  marquis  of  Madame 
du  Gun,  in  a  mocking  tone. 

But  the  smuggler  had  broached,  however  brutally,  too 
important  a  subject,  and  these  bold  spirits,  as  calcu- 
lating as  they  were  ambitious,  had  been  already  too  long 
in  doubt  as  to  what  they  might  hope  from  the  King,  for 
mere  disdain  on  the  young  chief's  part  to  close  the  inci- 
dent. The  young  and  fiery  Chevalier  du  Vissard  started 


A  DAY  WITHOUT  A  MORROW.  ^H 

briskly  before  Montauran,  and  seized  his  hand  to  prevent 
his  moving. 

"Take  care,  my  lord  marquis!"  said  he;  "you  treat  too 
lightly  men  who  have  some  right  to  the  gratitude  of 
him  whom  you  represent  here.  We  know  that  his 
majesty  has  given  you  full  powers  to  put  on  record  our 
services  which  are  to  be  rewarded  in  this  world — or  the 
next,  for  the  scaffold  stands  ready  for  us  every  day.  I 
know,  for  my  part,  that  the  rank  of  marechal  de  camp* — " 

"You  mean  colonel?" 

"No,  marquis;  Charette  made  me  colonel.  The  rank 
I  have  mentioned  is  my  incontestable  right;  and  there- 
fore I  do  not  speak  for  myself  at  this  moment,  but  for 
all  my  bold  brethren  in  arms  whose  services  have  need 
of  recognition.  For  the  present  your  signature  and  your 
promise  will  content  them;  and,"  he  added,  dropping 
his  voice,  "I  confess  that  they  are  easily  contented. 
But,"  he  went  on,  raising  it  again,  "when  the  sun  rises 
on  the  Palace  of  Versailles,  bringing  happier  days  for 
the  monarchy,  will  those  faithful  men  who  have  helped 
the  King  to  conquer  France  in  France — will  they  be 
easily  able  to  obtain  favors  for  their  families,  pensions 
for  their  widows,  the  restoration  of  the  estates  which 
have  been  so  wrongfully  confiscated?  I  doubt  it.  There- 
fore, my  lord  marquis,  attested  proof  of  service  will  not 
be  useless  then.  I  will  never  mistrust  the  King,  but  I 
very  heartily  distrust  his  cormorants  of  ministers  and 
courtiers,  who  will  din  into  his  ears  considerations  about 
the  public  welfare,  the  honor  of  France,  the  interests  of 
the  crown,  and  a  hundred  other  rubbishy  phrases.  Men 
will  make  mock,  then,  of  a  brave  Vend£an  or  Chouan 
because  he  is  old,  and  because  the  blade  he  has  drawn  for 


*  As  nearly   as  possible  brigadier-general,   except  that   this  latter  is,  as  a  rule, 
local  and  temporary. — Translator's  Note. 


312  THE    CHOUANS. 

the  good  cause  beats  against  legs  wizened  by  suffering. 
Can  you  say  we  are  wrong?" 

"You  speak  admirably  well,  M.  du  Vissard, "  answered 
the  marquis,  "but  a  little  prematurely." 

"Hark  you,  marquis,"  whispered  the  Count  de  Bauvan, 
"Rifoe'l  has,  by  my  faith!  said  very  pretty  things.  For 
your  part,  you  are  sure  of  always  having  the  King's  ear; 
but  as  for  us,  we  shall  only  visit  our  master  at  long 
intervals,  and  I  confess  to  you,  that  if  you  were  to 
refuse  your  word  as  a  gentleman  to  obtain  for  me  in 
due  time  and  place  the  post  of  Grand  Master  of  the 
Waters  and  Forests  of  France,  devil  take  me  if  I  would 
risk  my  neck!  It  is  no  small  thing  to  gain  Normandy 
for  the  King,  and  so  I  think  I  may  fairly  hope  to  have  the 
Order.*  But,"  he  added,  with  a  blush,  "there  is  time  to 
think  of  all  that.  God  keep  me  from  imitating  these 
rascals,  and  worrying  you.  You  will  speak  of  me  to  the 
King,  and  all  will  go  right." 

Then  each  chief  managed  to  inform  the  marquis,  in  a 
more  or  less  ingenious  fashion,  of  the  extravagant  price 
which  hs  expected  for  his  services.  One  modestly 
asked  for  the  Governorship  of  Brittany,  another  for  a 
barony,  a  third  for  promotion,  a  fourth  for  the  command 
of  a  place,  and  all  wanted  pensions. 

"Why,  baron!  "  said  the  marquis  to  M.  du  Gu£nic,  "do 
you  want  nothing?" 

"Faith!  marquis,  these  gentlemen  have  left  me  noth- 
ing but  the  crown  of  France,  but  perhaps  I  could  put  up 
with  that!  " 

"Why,  gentlemen!  "  said  the  Abb£  Gudin,  in  his 
thundering  voice,  "remember  that  if  you  are  so  eager, 
you  will  spoil  all  in  the  day  of  victory.  Will  not  the 


*  L'ltrdre  by  itself  usually  means  the  Saint  Esprit. — Translator's  Note. 


A   DAY  WITHOUT   A    MORROW.  313 

King  be  forced  to  make  concessions  to  the  Revolution- 
aries themselves?" 

"To  the  Jacobins?  "  cried  the  smuggler.  "If  his  majesty 
will  leave  them  to  me,  I  will  undertake  to  employ  my 
thousand  men  in  hanging  them,  and  we  shall  soon  get 
them  off  our  hands!  " 

"Monsieur  de  Cottereau, "  said  the  marquis,  "I  perceive 
that  some  invited  guests  are  entering  the  room.  We 
ought  all  to  vie  in  zeal  and  pains  so  as  to  induce  them 
to  join  our  holy  enterprise;  and  you  must  understand 
that  it  is  not  the  time  to  attend  to  your  demands,  how- 
ever just  they  may  be."  And  as  he  spoke  he  made  his 
way  towards  the  door  as  if  to  welcome  some  nobles  from 
the  neighboring  country  of  whom  he  had  caught  sight. 
But  the  bold  smuggler  barred  his  way,  though  with  a  sub- 
missive and  respectful  air. 

"No!  no!  my  lord  marquis,  excuse  me,  but  the  Jac- 
obins taught  us  too  well  in  1793  that  the  man  who 
reaps  the  harvest  is  not  the  man  who  eats  the  cake. 
Sign  this  strip  of  paper,  and  to-morrow  I  will  bring  you 
fifteen  hundred  gars.  If  not,  I  shall  treat  with  the  First 
Consul." 

Throwing  a  haughty  glance  round  him,  the  marquis 
saw  that  the  old  guerilla's  boldness  and  resolute  air 
were  not  displeasing  to  any  of  the  spectators  of  the  dis- 
pute. One  man  only,  who  sat  in  a  corner,  seemed  to 
take  no  part  in  the  scene,  and  was  busily  filling  a  white 
clay  pipe  with  tobacco.  The  contemptuous  air  with 
which  he  regarded  the  spokesman,  his  unassuming  atti- 
tude, and  the  compassion  for  himself  which  the  marquis 
read  in  his  eyes,  made  Montauran  scrutinize  this  gener- 
ous-minded servant,  in  whom  he  recognized  Major 
Brigatit.  The  chief  walked  quickly  up  to  him. 

"And  YOU,"  he  sairl,   "what  is  your  demand?" 


THE    CHOUANS. 


"Oh!  my  lord  marquis,  if  the  King  comes  back,  I  shall 
be  satisfied." 

"But  for  yourself?" 

"For  myself?     Your  lordship  is  joking." 

The  marquis  squeezed  the  Bret.on's  horny  hand,  and  said 
to  Madame  du  Gua,  near  whom  he  was  standing,  "Madame, 
I  may  fail  in  my  enterprise  before  having  time  to  send 


the  King  an  exact  report  as  to  the  state  of  the  Catholic 
army  in  Brittany.  If  you  live  to  see  the  restoration, 
forget  neither  this  honest  fellow  nor  the  Baron  du 
Guenic.  There  is  more  devotion  in  these  two  men  than 
in  all  these  people  here." 

And  lie  pointed    to    the  chiefs  who  were  waiting,  not 
without   impatience,    for  the   young    marquis    to    comply 


A  DAY  WITHOUT  A  MORROW. 


315 


with  their  demands.  They  all  held  in  their  hands  open 
papers,  in  which,  it  would  seem,  their  services  had  been 
certified  by  the  Royalist  leaders  in  former  wars;  and  a 
general  murmur  began  to  rise  from  them.  In  their  midst 
the  Abbe  Gudin,  the  Baron  du  Guenic,  and  the  Comte  de 
Bauvan  were  consulting  how  to  aid  the  marquis  in 
checking  such  exaggerated  pretensions;  for  they  could 
not  but  think  the  chief's  position  a  very  awkward 
one. 

Suddenly  the  marquis  ran  his  blue  eyes,  with  an  ironic 
flash  in  them,  over  the  company,  and  said,  in  a  clear 
voice:  "Gentlemen,  I  do  not  know  whether  the  powers 
which  the  King  has  graciously  entrusted  to  me  are  wide 
enough  to  enable  me  to  satisfy  your  demands.  He  may 
not  have  anticipated  so  much  zeal  and  devotion;  you 
shall  judge  for  yourselves  of  my  duty,  and  perhaps  I 
shall  be  able  to  do  it." 

He  disappeared,  and  came  back  promptly,  holding  in 
his  hand  an  open  letter  bearing  the  royal  seal  and  sign 
manual. 

"Here,"  he  said,  "are  the  letters  patent  in  virtue  of 
which  your  obedience  is  due  to  me.  They  authorize  me 
to  govern  the  provinces  of  Brittany,  Normandy,  Maine, 
and  Anjou  in  the  King's  name,  and  to  take  cognizance  of 
the  services  of  officers  who  distinguish  themselves  in 
his  majesty's  armies." 

A  movement  of  content  passed  through  the  assembly, 
and  the  Chouans  came  nearer  to  the  marquis,  respect- 
fully encircling  him,  with  their  eyes  bent  on  the  King's 
signature.  But  the  young  chief,  who  was  standing 
before  the  chimney-piece,  suddenly  threw  the  letter  in 
the  fire,  where,  in  a  moment,  it  was  consumed. 

"I  will  no  more  command,"  cried  the  young  man,  "any 
but  those  who  see  in  the  King  a  king,  and  not  a  prey  to 


316  THE    CHOUANS. 

be  devoured.  Gentlemen,  you  are  at  liberty  to  leave 
me!  " 

Madame  du  Gua,  Abbe  Gudin,  Major  Brigaut,  the 
Chevalier  du  Vissard,  the  Baron  du  Guenic,  the  Comte 
de  Bauvan,  gave  an  enthusiastic  cry  of  Vive  le  Roi,  and 
if  at  first  the  other  chiefs  hesitated  for  a  moment  to  echo 
it,  they  were  soon  carried  away  by  the  marquis'  noble  con- 
duct, begged  him  to  forget  what  had  happened,  and 
assured  him  that,  letters  patent  or  none,  he  should 
always  be  their  chief. 

"Let  us  go  and  dance!  "  cried  the  Comte  de  Bauvan, 
"come  what  may!  After  all,  friends,"  added  he  merrily, 
"it  is  better  to  pray  to  God  himself  than  to  His  saints. 
Let  us  fight  first,  and  see  what  happens  afterwards." 

"That  is  very  true,"  whispered  Major  Brigaut  to  the 
faithful  Baron  du  Guenic.  "Saving  your  reverence,  my 
lord  baron,  I  never  heard  the  day's  wage  asked  for  in 
the  morning." 

The  company  scattered  themselves  about  the  rooms, 
where  several  persons  were  already  assembled.  But  the 
marquis  vainly  endeavored  to  shake  off  the  gloomy  expres- 
sion which  had  changed  his  looks.  The  chiefs  could  not 
fail  to  perceive  the  unfavorable  impression  which  the 
scene  had  produced  on  a  man  whose  loyalty  was  still 
associated  with  the  fair  illusions  of  youth;  and  they 
were  ashamed. 

Stil  1,  a  riotous  joy  broke  out  in  the  meeting,  composed, 
as  it  was,  of  the  most  distinguished  persons  in  the  Roy- 
alist party,  who,  in  the  depths  of  a  revolted  province, 
had  never  been  able  to  appreciate  the  events  of  the  Revo- 
lution justly,  and  naturally  took  the  most  doubtful  hopes 
for  realities.  The  bold  operations  which  Montauran  had 
undertaken,  his  name,  his  fortune,  his  ability,  made  all 
men  pluck  up  their  courage,  and  brought  about  that  most 


A   DAY   WITHOUT  A  MORROW.  317 

dangerous  of  all  intoxications,  the  intoxication  politic, 
which  can  never  be  cooled  but  by  torrents  of  blood,  almost 
always  shed  in  vain.  To  all  the  company  the  Revolution 
was  but  a  passing  trouble  in  the  kingdom  of  France, 
where,  as  it  seemed  to  them,  no  real  change  had  taken 
place.  The  country  was  still  the  property  of  the  House  of 
Bourbon,  and  the  Royalists  were  so  completely  dominant 
there,  that,  four  years  before,  Hoche  had  secured  not  so 
much  a  peace  as  an  armistice.  Therefore  the  nobles 
made  small  account  of  the  Revolutionists:  in  their  eyes 
Bonaparte  was  a  Marceau  somewhat  luckier  than  his 
predecessors.  So  the  ladies  were  ready  to  dance  very 
merrily.  Only  a  few  of  the  chiefs,  who  had  actually 
fought  with  the  Blues,  comprehended  the  gravity  of  the 
actual  crisis,  and  as  they  knew  that  if  they  spoke  of  the 
First  Consul  and  his  power  to  their  benighted  comrades* 
they  would  not  be  understood,  they  talked  among  them- 
selves, looking  at  the  ladies  with  a  carelessness  which 
these  latter  avenged  by  private  criticisms.  Madame  du 
Gua,  who  seemed  to  be  doing  the  honors  of  the  ball, 
tried  to  amuse  the  impatience  of  the  lady  dancers  by 
addressing  to  each  of  them  conventional  compliments. 
The  screech  of  the  instruments,  which  were  being  tuned, 
was  already  audible  when  she  perceived  the  marquis,  his 
face  still  bearing  some  traces  of  sadness;  and  she  went 
rapidly  up  to  him. 

"I  hope  you  are  not  disordered  by  the  very  ordinary 
inconvenience  which  these  clowns  here  have  caused  you?" 
she  said  to  him. 

But  she  received  no  answer;  for  the  marquis,  absorbed 
in  reverie,  thought  he  heard  certain  of  the  considera- 
tions which  Marie  had  prophetically  laid  before  him 
amidst  these  very  chiefs  at  the  Vivetiere,  to  induce  him 
to  throw  up  the  struggle  of  king  against  people.  But 


31 8  THE    CHOUANS. 

the  young  man  had  too  lofty  a  soul,  too  much  pride, 
perhaps  too  much  sincerity  of  belief,  to  abandon  the 
work  he  had  begun,  and  he  made  up  his  mind  at  this 
moment  to  follow  it  out  boldly,  in  spite  of  obstacles. 
He  lifted  his  head  proudly,  and  only  then  understood 
what  Madame  du  Gua  was  saying  to  him. 

"Your  thoughts  are  at  Fougeres,  I  suppose!"  she  said, 
with  a  bitterness  which  showed  her  sense  of  the  useless- 
ness  of  the  efforts  she  had  made  to  distract  the  marquis. 
'Ah!  my  lord,  I  would  give  my  life  to  put  her  into  your 
hands,  and  see  you  happy  with  her." 

"Then,  why  did  you  take  so  good  a  shot  at  her?" 

"Because  I  should  like  to  see  her  either  dead  or  in 
your  arms.  Yes!  I  could  have  loved  the  Marquis  of 
Montauran  while  I  thought  him  a  hero.  Now,  I  have  for 
him  nothing  but  friendship  mingled  with  sorrow,  when 
I  see  him  cut  off  from  glory  by  the  wandering  heart  of 
an  opera  girl!  " 

"As  far  as  love  goes,"  said  the  marquis  in  a  sarcastic 
tone,  "you  judge  me  ill.  If  I  loved  the  girl,  madame, 
I  should  feel  less  desire  for  her — and  if  it  were  not  for 
you,  perhaps,  I  should  not  think  of  her  at  all." 

"There  she  is!  "  said  Madame  du  Gua,  suddenly. 

The  poor  lady  was  terribly  hurt  by  the  haste  with 
which  the  marquis  turned  his  head;  but  as  the  bright 
light  of  the  candles  enabled  her  to  see  the  smallest 
changes  in  the  features  of  the  man  so  madly  loved,  she 
thought  she  could  see  some  hope  of  return,  when  he  once 
more  presented  his  face  to  her,  smiling  at  her  woman's 
stratagem. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?"  said  the  Comte  de 
Bauvan. 

"At  the  bursting  of  a  bubble,"  answered  Madame  du 
Gua  joyfully.  "Our  marquis,  if  we  are  to  believe  him, 


A   BAY   WITHOUT  A   MORROW.  319 

cannot  understand  to-day  how  he  felt  his  heart  beat  a 
moment  for  the  baggage*  who  called  herself  Mile,  de 
Verneuil — you  remember?" 

Baggage,  madame?"  repeated  the  count,  in  a  reproach- 
ful tone.  "It  is  the  duty  of  the  author  of  a  wrong  to 
redress  it,  and  I  give  ^ou  my  word  of  honor  that  she  is 
really  the  Duke  de  Verneuil's  daughter." 

"Count,"  said  the  marquis,  in  a  voice  of  deep  emotion, 
"which of  your  'words'  are  we  to  believe — that  given  at 
the  Vivetiere,  or  that  given  at  Saint  James?" 

A  loud  voice  announced  Mile,  de  Verneuil.  The  count 
darted  to  the  door,  offered  his  hand  to  the  beautiful 
stranger  with  tokens  of  the  deepest  respect,' and,  usher- 
ing her  through  the  inquisitive  crowd  to  the  marquis  and 
Madame  du  Gua,  answered  the  astonished  chief,  "Believe 
only  the  word  I  give  you  to-day!  " 

Madame  du  Gua  grew  pale  at  the  sight  of  this  girl, 
who  always  presented  herself  at  the  wrong  moment,  and 
who,  for  a  time,  drew  herself  to  her  full  height,  cast- 
ing haughty  glances  over  the  company,  among  whom  she 
sought  the  guests  of  the  Vivetiere.  She  waited  for  the 
salutation  which  her  rival  was  forced  to  give  her,  and 
without  even  looking  at  the  marquis,  allowed  herself  to 
be  conducted  to  a  place  of  honor  by  the  count,  who  seated 
her  near  Madame  du  Gua  herself.  Mile,  de  Verneuil  had 
replied  to  this  lady's  greeting  by  a  slight  condescending 
nod,  but,  with  womanly  instinct,  Madame  du  Gua  showed 
no  vexation,  and  promptly  assumed  a  smiling  and 
friendly  air.  Mile,  de  Verneuil's  singular  dress  and  her 
great  beauty  drew  for  a  moment  a  murmur  of  admira- 
tion from  the  company;  and  when  the  marquis  arid 
Madame  du  Gua  turned  their  eyes  to  the  guests  of  the 


*  Here  is  the  old  difficulty  of  fille.     No  word  used  in  modern  English  meets  it.— 
Translator's  Note. 


320  THE    CHOUANS. 

Viveticre,  they  found  in  them  an  air  of  respect  which 
seemed  to  be  sincere,  each  man  appearing  to  be  looking 
for  a  way  to  recover  the  good  graces  of  the  fair  Parisian 
whom  he  had  mistaken.  And  so  the  adversaries  were 
fairly  met. 

"But  this  is  enchantment,  mademoiselle,"  said  Madame 
du  Gua.  "Nobody  in  the  world  but  you  could  surprise 
people  in  this  way.  What!  you  have  come  here  all  by 
yourself?" 

"All  by  myself,"  echoed  Mile,  de  Verneuil.  "And  so, 
madame,  this  evening  you  will  have  nobody  but  myself 
to  kill." 

"Do  not  be  too  severe,"  replied  Madame  du  Gua.  "I 
cannot  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  again.  I  was 
really  aghast  at  the  thought  of  my  misconduct  towards 
you,  and  I  was  looking  for  an  opportunity  which  might 
allow  me  to  set  it  right." 

"As  for  your  misconduct,' madame,  I  pardon  you  with- 
out difficulty  that  towards  myself.  But  I  take  to  heart  the 
death  of  the  Blues  whom  you  murdered.  Perhaps,  too, 
I  might  complain  of  the  weighty  character  of  your  dis- 
patches; but  there,  I  forgive  everything  in  consideration 
of  the  service  you  have  done  me!  " 

Madame  du  Gua  lost  countenance  as  her  fair  rival 
squeezed  her  hand  and  smiled  on  her  with  insolent  grace. 
The  marquis  had  remained  motionless,  but  now  he 
clutched  the  count's  arm. 

"You  deceived  me  disgracefully,"  said  he,  "and  you 
have  even  tarnished  my  honor.  I  am  not  a  stage  dupe; 
and  I  must  have  your  life,  or  you  mine." 

"Marquis,"  answered  the  count  haughtily,  "I  am  ready 
to  give  you  every  satisfaction  that  you  can  desire." 

And  they  moved  towards  the  next  room.  Even  those 
guests  who  had  least  inkling  of  the  meaning  of  the 


A   DAY   WITHOUT   A    MORROW.  321 

scene  began  to  understand  the  interest  of  it,  so  that 
when  the  fiddlers  struck  up  the  dance  not  a  soul  stirred. 

"Mademoiselle,"  asked  Madame  du  Gua,  clenching  her 
lips  in  a  kind  of  fury,  "what  service  have  I  had  the 
honor  of  doing  you  to  deserve  this  gratitude?" 

"Did  you  not  enlighten  me  on  the  true  character  of  the 
Marquis  of  Montauran,  madame?  How  calmly  the  odious 
man  let  me  perish!  I  give  him  up  to  you  with  the 
greatest  pleasure." 

"Then,  what  have  you  come  to  seek  here?"  said  Madame 
du  Gua  sharply. 

"The  esteem  and  the  reputation  of  which  you  robbed  me 
at  the  Vivetiere,  madame.  As  for  anything  else,  do  not 
disturb  yourself.  Even  if  the  marquis  came  back  to  me, 
you  know  that  a  renewal  of  love  is  never  love." 

Madame  du  Gua  thereupon  took  Mile,  de  Verneuil's 
hand  with  the  ostentatious  endearment  of  gesture  which 
women,  especially  in  men's  company,  like  to  display 
towards  one  another. 

"Well,  dear  child,  I  am  delighted  to  find  you  so  rea- 
sonable. If  the  service  I  did  you  seemed  rough  at  first," 
said  she,  pressing  the  hand  she  held,  though  she  felt  a 
keen  desire  to  tear  it  as  her  fingers  told  her  its  delicate 
softness,  "it  shall  be  at  least  a  thorough  one.  Listen  to 
me,"  she  went  on,  with  a  treacherous  smile;  "I  know  the 
character  of  the  Gars.  He  would  have  deceived  you. 
He  does  not  wish  to  marry,  and  cannot  marry  anybody." 

"Really?" 

"Yes,  mademoiselle;  he  only  accepted  this  dangerous 
mission  in  order  to  earn  the  hand  of  Mile.  d'Uxelles, 
an  alliance  in  which  his  majesty  has  promised  him  full 
support. " 

"What,  really?" 

And  Mile,  de  Verneuil  added  no  word  to  this  sarcastic 


322 


THE    CHOUANS. 


exclamation.  The  young  and  handsome  Chevalier  du 
Vissard,  eager  to  obtain  pardon  for  the  pleasantry  which 
had  set  the  example  of  insult  at  the  Vivetiere,  advanced 
towards  her  with  a  respectful  invitation  to  dance;  and, 
extending  her  hand  to  him,  she  rapidly  took  her  place  in 
the  quadrille  where  Madame  du  Gua  also  danced.  The 


dress  of  these  ladies,  all  of  whose  toilettes  recalled  the 
fashions  of  the  exiled  court,  and  who  wore  powdered  or 
frizzled  hair,  seemed  absurd  in  comparison  with  the 
costume,  at  once  rich,  elegant,  and  severe,  which  the 
actual  fashion  allowed  Mile,  de  Verneuil  to  wear,  and 


A   DAY   WITHOUT   A   MORROW.  323 

which,  though  condemned  aloud,  was  secretly  envied  by 
the  other  women.  As  for  the  men,  they  were  never 
weary  of  admiring  the  beauty  of  hair  left  to  itself,  and 
the  details  of  a  dress  whose  chief  grace  consisted  in  the 
shape  that  it  displayed. 

At  this  moment  the  marquis  and  the  count  reentered 
the  ball  room  and  came  up  behind  Mile,  de  Verneuil, 
who  did  not  turn  her  head.  Even  if  a  mirror,  which 
hung  opposite,  had  not  apprised  her  of  the  marquis' 
presence,  she  could  have  guessed  it  from  the  countenance 
of  Madame  du  Gua,  who  hid  but  ill,  under  an  outward 
air  of  indifference,  the  impatience  with  which  she 
expected  the  contest  certain  to  break  out  sooner  or  later 
between  the  two  lovers.  Although  Montauran  was  talk- 
ing to  the  count  and  two  other  persons,  he  could  neverthe- 
less hear  the  remarks  of  the  dancers  of  both  sexes,  who, 
according  to  the  change  of  the  figures,  were  brought  from 
time  to  time  into  the  place  of  Mile,  de  Verneuil  and 
her  neighbors. 

"O,  yes;  certainly,  madame, "  said  one;  "she  came  by 
herself." 

"She  must  be  very  brave,"  said  his  partner. 

"Why,  if  I  were  dressed  like  that,  I  should  think  I 
had  nothing  on,"  said  another  lady. 

"Well,  the  costume  is  hardly  proper,"  replied  the 
gentleman;  "but  she  is  so  pretty,  and  it  suits  her  so 
well  !" 

"Really,  I  am  quite  ashamed,  for  her  sake,  to  see  how 
perfectly  she  dances.  Don't  you  think  she  has  exactly  the 
air  of  an  opera  girl?"  answered  the  lady,  with  a  touch  of 
jealousy. 

"Do  you  think  she  has  come  here  as  an  ambassadress 
from  the  First  Consul?"  asked  a  third. 

"What  a  joke!  "  replied  the  gentleman. 


324  THE  CHOUANS. 

"Her  innocence  will  hardly  be  her  dowry,"  said  the 
lady,  with  a  laugh. 

The  Gars  turned  round  sharply  to  see  what  woman  it 
was  who  allowed  herself  such  a  gibe,  and  Madame  du 
Gua  looked  him  in  the  face,  as  who  would  say  plainly, 
"You  see  what  they  think  of  her!  " 

"Madame,"  said  the  count,  with  another  laugh,  to 
Marie's  enemy,  "it  is  only  ladies  who  have  as  yet 
deprived  her  of  innocence." 

The  marquis  inwardly  pardoned  Bauvan  for  all  his 
misdeeds;  but  when  he  ventured  to  cast  a  glance  at  his 
mistress,  whose  beauties,  like  those  of  all  women,  were 
enhanced  by  the  candle-light,  she  turned  her  back  to 
him  as  she  returned  to  her  place,  and  began  to  talk  to 
her  partner,  so  that  the  marquis  could  overhear  her 
voice  in  its  most  caressing  tones. 

"The  First  Consul  sends  us  very  dangerous  ambassa- 
dors," said  the  chevalier. 

"Sir,"  she  replied,  "that  observation  was  made  before, 
at  the  Vivetiere. " 

"But  you  have  as  good  a  memory  as  the  King!  " 
rejoined  the  gentleman,  vexed  at  his  blunder. 

"One  must  needs  remember  injuries  in  order  to  pardon 
them,"  said  she  briskly,  and  relieving  his  embarrass- 
ment with  a  smile. 

"Are  we  all  included  in  this  amnesty?"  asked  the 
marquis. 

But  she  darted  out  to  dance  with  the  excitement  of  a 
child,  leaving  him  unanswered  and  abashed.  He  gazed 
upon  her  with  a  melancholy  coldness,  which  she  per- 
ceived. And  then  she  bent  her  head  in  one  of  the 
coquettish  attitudes  in  which  her  exquisitely  propor- 
tioned neck  allowed  her  to  indulge,  forgetting  no  possi- 
ble movement  which  could  show  the  rare  perfection  of  her 


A    DAY   WITHOUT   A   MORROW.  325 

form.  Enticing  as  Hope,  she  was  as  fugitive  as  Mem- 
ory; and  to  see  her  thus  was  to  desire  the  possession  of 
her  at  any  ccst.  She  knew  this  well,  and  her  conscious- 
ness of  beauty  shed  an  inexpressible  charm  over  her  face. 
Montauran  felt  a  whirlwind  of  love,  of  rage,  of  madness, 
rising  in  his  heart;  he  pressed  the  count's  hand  strongly, 
and  withdrew 

"What!  has  he  gone?"  asked  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  as  she 
came  back  to  her  place. 

The  count  darted  to  the  neighboring  room,  and  made  a 
knowing  gesture  to  his  protegee  as  he  brought  the  Gars 
back  to  her. 

"He  is  mine! "  she  thought,  as  she  perused  in  the 
mirror  the  countenance  of  Montauran,  whose  face  was 
slightly  agitated,  but  bright  with  hope. 

She  received  the  young  chief  at  first  with  glum  silence, 
but  she  did  not  leave  him  again  without  a  smile.  His 
look  of  distinction  was  so  great,  that  she  felt  proud  of 
being  able  to  tyrannize  over  him,  and  determined  to 
make  him  pay  dearly  for  a  kind  word  or  two,  that  he 
might  know  their  value — thereby  obeying  an  instinct 
which  all  women  follow  in  one  degree  or  another.  The 
dance  finished,  all  the  gentlemen  of  the  Vivetiere  party 
surrounded  Marie,  each  begging  pardon  for  his  error  with 
compliments  more  or  less  well  turned.  But  he  whom 
she  wished  to  see  at  her  feet  kept  aloof  from  the  group 
of  her  subjects. 

"He  thinks  I  still  love  him,"  she  thought,  "and  he 
will  not  be  lost  in  the  common  herd." 

She  refused  the  next  dance;  and  then,  as  though  the 
festival  had  been  given  in  her  honor,  she  went  from 
quadrille  to  quadrille  leaning  on  the  arm  of  the  Comte 
de  Bauvan,  with  whom  she  chose  to  be  in  a  way  familiar. 
The  adventure  of  the  Vivetiere  was  by  this  time 


326  THE    CHOUANS. 

known  in  its  minutest  details  to  the  whole  company, 
thanks  to  the  pains  taken  by  Madame  du  Gua,  who 
hoped,  by  thus  publicly  connecting  Mile,  de  Verneuil 
and  the  marquis,  to  throw  another  stumbling-block  in 
the  way  of  their  reunion.  Hence  the  sundered  lovers  were 
the  object  of  general  attention.  Montauran  dared  not 
enter  into  conversation  with  his  mistress;  for  the  con- 
sciousness of  his  misdoings  and  the  violence  of  his 
rekindled  desires  made  her  almost  terrible  to  him; 
while,  on  her  side,  the  girl  kept  watching  his  face  of 
pretended  calm,  while  she  seemed  to  be  looking  at  the 
dancing 

"It  is  terribly  hot  here!  "  she  said  to  her  cavalier.  "I 
see  M.  de  Montauran' s  forehead  is  quite  moist.  Take 
me  somewhere  else  where  I  can  breathe — I  feel  stifled." 

And,  with  a  nod,  she  indicated  to  the  count  a  neigh- 
boring apartment,  which  was  occupied  only  by  some 
card-players.  The  marquis  followed  his  mistress,  whose 
words  he  had  guessed  by  the  mere  motion  of  her  lips. 
He  ventured  to  hope  that  she  was  only  withdrawing  from 
the  crowd  in  order  to  give  him  an  interview,  and  this 
supposed  favor  added  a  violence  as  yet  unknown  to  his 
passion;  for  every  attempt  which  he  had  made  to 
conquer  his  love  during  the  last  few  days  had  but 
increased  it.  Mile,  de  Verneuil  took  pleasure  in  tor- 
menting the  young  chief;  and  her  glance,  soft  as  velvet 
when  it  lit  upon  the  count,  became  dark  and  harsh  when 
it  chanced  to  meet  the  marquis'  eyes.  Montauran 
seemed  to  make  a  painful  effort,  and  said  in  a  choked 
voice: 

"Will  you  not,  then,  forgive  me?" 

"Love,"  she  answered  coldly,  "pardons  nothing,  or 
pardons  all.  But,"  she  went  on,  seeing  him  give  a 
start  of  joy,  "it  must  be  love — 


A    DAY  WITHOUT   A    MORROW.  337 

She  had  once  more  taken  the  count's  arm,  and  passed 
rapidly  into  a  kind  of  boudoir,  serving  as  antechamber 
to  the  card-room.  The  marquis  followed  her. 

"You  shall  hear  me!  "  he  cried. 

"Sir,"  answered  she,  "you  will  make  people  believe 
that  I  came  here  for  your  sake,  and  not  out  of  self- 
respect.  If  you  do  not  cease  this  hateful  persecution 
I  must  withdraw." 

"Well,  then,"  said  he,  remembering  one  of  the  mad- 
dest actions  of  the  last  Duke  of  Lorraine,  "give  me  leave 
to  speak  to  you  for  the  time  only  during  which  I  can  hold 
this  live  coal  in  my  hand."  He  stooped  to  the  hearth, 
picked  up  a  brand,  and  grasped  it  hard.  Mile,  de  Ver- 
neuil's  face  flushed;  she  suddenly  dropped  the  arm  of 
the  count  (who  quietly  retired,  leaving  the  lovers  alone), 
and  stared  in  wonder  at  Montauran.  So  mad  an  act  had 
touched  her  heart,  for  in  love  there  is  nothing  more 
effective  than  a  piece  of  senseless  courage. 

"All  that  you  prove  by  this,"  said  she,  as  she  tried  to 
make  him  throw  the  brand  away,  "is  that  you  might 
give  me  up  to  the  most  cruel  tortures.  You  are  always 
in  extremes.  On  the  faith  of  a  fool's  word  and  a 
woman's  slander,  you  suspected  her  who  had  just  saved 
your  life  of  being  capable  of  selling  you." 

"Yes,"  said  he  with  a  smile,  "I  was  cruel  to  you. 
Forget  it  forever;  I  shall  never  forget  it.  But  listen: 
I  was  abominably  deceived;  but  so  many  circumstances 
during  that  fatal  day  were  against  you." 

"And  were  these  circumstances  enough  to  extinguish 
your  love?" 

As  he  hesitated  to  answer,  she  rose  with  a  gesture  of 
scorn. 

"Oh!  Marie,  from  this  time  I  will  believe  none  but 
you!  " 


328  THE   CHOUANS. 

"Throw  away  that  fire,  I  tell  you!  You  are  mad ! 
Open  your  hand — I  will  have  it!  " 

He  chose  to  oppose  some  resistance  to  his  mistress' 
gentle  violence,  in  order  to  prolong  the  keen  pleasure 
which  he  felt  in  being  closely  pressed  by  her  tiny,  caress- 
ing fingers.  But  she  at  last  succeeded  in  opening  the 
hand,  which  she  would  gladly  have  kissed.  A  flow  of 
blood  had  quenched  the  glowing  wood. 

"Now,  what  good  did  that  do  you?"  she  said;  and 
making  a  bandage  of  her  handkerchief,  she  applied  it  to 
the  wound,  which  was  not  deep,  and  which  the  marquis 
quickly  covered  with  his  glove.  Madame  du  Gua  had 
come  on  tiptoe  into  the  card-room,  and  cast  furtive 
glances  at  the  lovers,  whose  eyes  she  adroitly  escaped  by 
leaning  back  at  their  least  movement.  But  she  could 
not  very  easily  understand  their  conversation  from  what 
she  saw  of  their  action. 

"If  all  they  told  you  of  me  were  true,  confess  that  I 
should  be  well  avenged  at  this  moment,"  said  Marie, 
with  a  malicious  air  which  turned  the  marquis  pale. 

"But  what  were  the  feelings,  then,  that  brought  you 
here?" 

"My  dear  boy,  you  are  a  very  great  coxcomb.  Do  you 
really  think  that  you  can  despise  a  woman  like  me  with 
impunity?  I  came  both  for  your  sake  and  for  my  own," 
she  went  on  after  a  pause,  putting  her  hand  to  the  cluster 
of  rubies  which  lay  in  the  center  of  her  breast,  and  show- 
ing him  the  blade  of  her  dagger. 

"What  does  all  this  mean?"  thought  Madame  du  Gua. 

"But,"  continued  Marie,  "you  still  love  me — at  any 
rate,  you  still  feel  a  desire  for  me,  and  the  folly  you 
have  just  committed,"  said  she,  taking  his  hand,  "has 
given  me  proof  of  it.  I  have  recovered  the  position  I 
wished  to  hold,  and  I  can  go  away  satisfied.  He  who 


A    DAY   WITHOUT   A   MORROW.  329 

loves  is  always  sure  of  pardon.  For  my  part,  I  am 
loved;  I  have  regained  the  esteem  of  the  man  who  is  all 
the  world  to  me;  I  can  die! ' 

"Then,  you  love  me  still?"  said  Montauran. 

"Did  I  say  so?"  she  answered  mockingly,  and  follow- 
ing with  joy  the  progress  of  the  horrible  torture  which, 
at  her  first  coming,  she  had  begun  to  apply  to  him. 
"Had  I  not  to  make  sacrifices  in  order  to  get  here?  I 
saved  M.  de  Bauvan's  life,  and  he,  more  grateful  than 
you,  has  offered  me  his  name  and  fortune  in  exchange  for 
my  protection.  It  did  not  occur  to  you  to  do  that!  " 

The  marquis,  aghast  at  these  last  words,  checked  the 
most  violent  access  of  wrath  which  he  had  yet  suffered 
at  feeling  himself  duped  by  the  count,  but  did  not 
answer. 

"Ah!  you  are  considering!"  she  said,  with  a  bitter 
smile. 

"Mademoiselle,"  answered  the  young  man,  "your  doubts 
justify  mine." 

"Sir!  let  us  quit  this  room!  "  cried  Mile,  de  Verneuil, 
as  she  saw  the  skirt  of  Madame  du  Gua's  gown.  And 
she  rose;  but  her  wish  to  drive  her  rival  desperate  made 
her  linger. 

"Do  you  wish  to  plunge  me  into  hell?"  asked  the  mar- 
quis, taking  her  hand  and  pressing  it  hard. 

"Is  it  not  five  days  since  you  plunged  me  there?  At 
this  very  moment  are  you  not  leaving  me  in  the  crudest 
uncertainty  whether  your  love  is  sincere  or  not?" 

"But  how  can  I  tell  if  you  are  not  pushing  your  ven- 
geance to  the  point  by  making  yourself  mistress  of  my 
life,  for  the  purpose  of  tarnishing  it,  instead  of  planning 
my  death?" 

"Ah!  you  do  not  love  me!  You  think  of  yourself,  not 
of  me!  "  said  she,  furiously,  and  weeping,  for  the  coquette 


330  THE    CHOUANS. 

knew  well  the  power  of  her  eyes  when  they  were  drowned 
in  tears. 

"Well,  then,"  said  he,  no  longer  master  of  himself, 
"take  my  life,  but  dry  your  tears!" 

"Oh!  my  love!"  cried  she  in  a  stifled  voice,  "these 
are  the  words,  the  tones,  the  looks,  that  I  waited  for 
before  setting  your  happiness  above  my  own.  But,  sir," 
she  went  on,  "I  must  ask  you  for  a  last  proof  of  your  affec- 
tion, which  you  say  is  so  great.  I  will  stay  here  no 
longer  than  is  necessary  to  make  it  thoroughly  known 
that  you  are  mine.  I  would  not  even  drink  a  glass  of 
water  in  a  house  where  lives  a  woman  who  has  twice 
tried  to  kill  me,  who  is  perhaps  now  plotting  some 
treason  against  us,  and  who  at  this  very  moment  is  list- 
ening to  our  talk,"  said  she,  guiding  the  marquis'  eyes 
with  her  finger  to  the  floating  folds  of  Madame  du  Gua's 
dress.  Then  she  dried  her  tears,  and  bent  towards  the 
ear  of  the  young  chief,  who  shivered  as  he  felt  himself 
caressed  by  her  sweet,  moist  breath. 

"Get  ready  for  our  departure,"  said  she.  "You  shall 
take  me  back  to  Fougeres,  and  there,  and  there  only, 
you  shall  know  whether  I  love  you  or  not.  For  the 
second  time  I  trust  myself  to  you:  will  you  trust  your- 
self a  second  time  to  me?" 

"Ah,  Marie!  you  have  brought  me  to  such  a  pass  that 
I  know  no  more  what  I  am  doing.  Your  words,  your 
looks,  yourself,  have  intoxicated  me,  and  I  am  ready  to 
do  anything  you  wish." 

"Well,  then,  make  me  for  a  moment  quite  happy.  Let 
me  enjoy  the  only  triumph  I  have  longed  for.  I  want  to 
breathe  freely  once,  to  live  the  life  I  have  dreamed,  and 
to  fill  myself  full  of  my  dreams,  before  they  vanish.  Let 
us  go  back;  come  and  dance  with  me." 

They  returned  together  to  the  ball-room,  and  although 


A   DAY  WITHOUT  A   MORROW. 


331 


Mile,  de  Verneuil  had  received  as  complete  and  hearty  a 
satisfaction  of  her  vanity  as  ever  woman  could,  the 
mysterious  sweetness  of  her  eyes,  the  delicate  smile  on 
her  lips,  the  brisk  movement  of  a  lively  dance,  kept  the 
secret  of  her  thoughts  as  the  sea  keeps  those  of  a  mur- 
derer who  drops  into  it  a  heavy  corpse.  Nevertheless, 
the  company  uttered  an  admiring  murmur  when  she 
threw  herself  into  the  arms  of  her  lover  for  the  waltz, 
and  the  two,  voluptuously  clasping  each  other,  with 
languishing  eyes  and  drooping  heads,  whirled  round, 
clasping  each  other  with  a  kind  of  frenzy  that  showed 
what  infinite  pleasure  they  expected  from  a  still  closer 
union. 

"Count,"  said  Madame  du  Gua  to  M.  de  Bauvan,  "go 
and  find  out  if  Pille-Miche  is  in  camp;  bring  him  to  me; 
and  be  certain  that  you  shall  obtain  from  me  in  return 
for  this  slight  service  anything  you  wish,  even  my  hand. 
My  vengeance,"  continued  she  to  herself,  as  she  saw  him 
go  off,  "will  cost  me  dear;  but  this  time  I  will  not  miss 
it." 

A  few  moments  later,  Mile,  de  Verneuil  and  the  mar- 
quis were  seated  in  a  berline  horsed  with  four  stout 
steeds.  Francine,  surprised  at  finding  the  two  supposed 
enemies  with  clasped  hands  and  on  the  best  terms,  sat 
speechless,  and  did  not  dare  to  ask  herself  whether  this 
was  treachery  or  love  on  her  mistress'  part.  Thanks  to 
the  silence  and  to  the  darkness  of  night,  Montauran 
could  not  perceive  Mile,  de  Verneuil's  agitation  as  she 
drew  near  Fougeres.  At  length  the  feeble  glimmer  of 
dawn  gave  a  far-off  sight  of  the  steeple  of  Saint  Leon- 
ard's, and  at  the  same  moment  Marie  said  to  herself, 
"Death  is  near!  " 

At  the  first  rising  ground  the  same  thought  occurred 
to  each  of  the  lovers.  They  alighted  from  the  carriage 


332  THE    CHOUANS. 

and  climbed  the  hill  on  foot,  as  though  in  remembrance 
of  their  first  meeting.  When  Marie  had  taken  the  mar- 
quis' arm  and  walked  a  short  distance,  she  thanked  the 
young  man  with  a  smile  for  having  respected  her  silence. 
Then,  as  they  reached  the  crown  of  the  hill  whence 
Fougeres  was  visible,  she  threw  aside  her  reverie  alto- 
gether. 

"You  must  come  no  further,"  she  said.  "My  power 
would  not  again  avail  to  save  you  from  the  Blues  to-day." 

Montauran  looked  at  her  with  some  surprise;  she  gave  a 
sad  smile,  pointed  to  a  boulder  as  if  bidding  him  sit 
down,  and  herself  remained  standing  in  a  melancholy 
posture.  The  emotions  which  tore  her  soul  no  longer 
permitted  her  to  practice  the  artifices  of  which  she  had 
been  so  prodigal,  and  for  the  moment  she  could  have 
knelt  on  burning  coals  without  feeling  them  more  than 
the  marquis  had  felt  the  lighted  wood  which  he  had 
grasped  to  attest  the  violence  of  his  passion.  She  gazed 
at  her  lover  with  a  look  full  of  the  profoundest  grief 
before  she  said  to  him  the  appalling  words: 

"All  your  suspicions  of  me  are  true!  " 

The  marquis  gave  a  sudden  movement,  but  she  said, 
clasping  her  hands:  "For  pity's  sake,  hear  me  without 
interruption.  I  am  really  and  truly,"  she  went  on  in  a 
faltering  tone,  "the  daughter  of  the  Duke  de  Verneuil, 
but  his  natural  daughter  only.  My  mother,  who  was  of 
the  house  of  Casteran,  and  who  took  the  veil  to  escape 
the  sufferings  which  her  family  were  preparing  for  her, 
atoned  for  her  fault  by  fifteen  years  of  weeping,  and  died 
at  Seez.  Only  on  her  death-bed  did  the  dear  abbess 
address  to  the  man  who  had  abandoned  her  an  entreaty 
in  my  favor;  for  she  knew  that  I  had  neither  friends, 
prospects,  nor  fortune.  This  man,  never  forgotten  under 
the  roof  of  Francine's  mother,  to  whose  care  I  had  been 


A    DAY   WITHOUT  A   MORROW.  333 

committed,  had  himself  forgotten  his  child.  Neverthe- 
less, the  duke  received  me  with  pleasure,  and  acknowl- 
edged me  because  I  was  beautiful;  perhaps,  also,  because 
I  reminded  him  of  his  youth.  He  was  one  of  those  grande 
seigneurs  who,  in  the  former  reign,  prided  themselves  on 
showing  how  a  man  may  procure  pardon  for  a  crime  by 
committing  it  gratefully.  I  will  say  no  more — he  was 
my  father!  But  permit  me  to  show  you  the  evil  effect 
which  my  sojourn  at  Paris  could  not  help  producing  on 
my  mind.  The  society  which  the  Duke  de  Verneuil 
kept,  and  that  to  which  he  introduced  me,  doted  on  the 
mocking  philosophy  which  then  charmed  all  France, 
because  it  was  the  rule  to  make  witty  profession  of  it. 
The  brilliant  talk  which  pleased  my  ear  was  recom- 
mended by  its  ingenious  observations,  or  by  a  neatly- 
turned  contempt  of  religion  and  of  truth  generally.  As 
they  mocked  certain  feelings  and  thoughts,  men  drew 
them  all  the  better  that  they  did  not  share  them;  and  they 
were  as  agreeable  by  dint  of  their  skill  in  epigram,  as 
by  the  sprightliness  with  which  they  could  put  a  whole 
story  in  a  phrase.  But  they  too  often  made  the  mistake 
of  excessive  esprit,  and  wearied  women  by  making  love  a 
business  rather  than  an  affair  of  the  heart.  I  made  but 
a  weak  resistance  to  this  torrent.  I  had  a  soul  (pardon 
my  vanity!)  sufficiently  full  of  passion  to  feel  that  esprit 
had  withered  all  hearts;  but  the  life  which  I  then  led 
had  the  result  of  bringing  about  a  perpetual  conflict 
between  my  natural  sentiments  and  the  vicious  habits  I 
had  contracted.  Some  persons  of  parts  had  delighted  to 
foster  in  me  that  freedom  of  thought,  that  contempt  of 
public  opinion,  which  deprives  woman  of  the  modesty  of 
soul  that  gives  her  half  her  charm.  Alas!  adversity 
could  not  eradicate  the  faults  which  prosperity  had 
caused.  My  father,"  she  continued,  after  heaving  a  sigh, 


334  THE    CHOUANS. 

''the  Duke  de  Verneuil,  died  after  formally  acknowl- 
edging me,  and  making  in  my  favor  a  will  which  con- 
siderably diminished  the  fortune  of  my  brother,  his  legit- 
imate son.  One  morning  I  found  myself  without  a 
shelter  and  without  a  guardian.  My  brother  contested 
the  will  which  made  me  a  rich  woman.  Three  years 
spent  in  a  wealthy  household  had  developed  my  vanity, 
and  my  father,  by  gratifying  my  every  wish,  had  created 
in  me  a  craving  for  luxury  and  habits  of  indulgence,  the 
tyranny  of  which  my  young  and  simple  mind  did  not 
comprehend.  A  friend  of  my  father's,  the  Marshal-Duke 
de  Lenoncourt,  who  was  seventy  years  old,  offered  to  be 
my  guardian;  I  accepted,  and  a  few  days  after  the  begin- 
ning of  the  hateful  lawsuit,  I  found  myself  once  more  in 
a  splendid  establishment,  where  I  enjoyed  all  the  advan- 
tages which  my  brother's  cruelty  had  refused  me  over 
my  father's  coffin.  Every  evening  the  marshal  spenf 
some  hours  with  me,  and  the  old  man  spoke  all  the 
time  nothing  but  words  of  gentle  consolation.  His 
whole  air  and  the  various  touching  proofs  of  paternal 
tenderness  which  he  gave  me,  seemed  to  guarantee  that 
his  heart  held  no  other  sentiments  than  my  own;  and  I 
was  glad  to  think  myself  his  daughter.  I  accepted  the 
jewels  he  offered  me,  and  hid  from  him  none  of  the 
fancies  which  I  found  him  so  glad  to  satisfy.  One  even- 
ing I  learned  that  the  whole  town  thought  me  the  poor 
old  man's  mistress.  It  was  demonstrated  to  me  that  it 
was  out  of  my  power  to  regain  the  reputation  for  inno- 
cence of  which  society  causelessly  robbed  me.  The  man 
who  had  practiced  on  my  inexperience  could  not  be  my 
lover,  and  would  not  be  my  husband.  In  the  very  same 
week  in  which  I  made  the  hideous  discovery — on  the 
very  eve  of  the  day  fixed  for  my  marriage  with  him  (for 
I  had  insisted  on  bearing  his  name,  the  only  reparation 


A    DAY   WITHOUT   A   MORROW.  335 

he  could  make  me) — he  fled  to  Coblentz.  I  was  insult- 
ingly driven  from  the  little  house  in  which  the  marshal 
had  placed  me,  and  which  did  not  belong  to  him.  So 
far  I  have  told  you  the  truth,  as  if  I  were  in  the  presence 
of  God  himself;  but  from  this  point  ask  not,  I  pray  you, 
from  a  wretched  girl,  an  exact  account  of  the  miseries 
buried  in  her  memory.  One  day,  sir,  I  found  myself 
united  to  Danton!  A  few  days  later  the  huge  oak  round 
which  I  had  cast  my  arms  was  uprooted  by  the  storm. 
When  I  saw  myself  once  more  immersed  in  poverty,  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  die.  I  know  not  whether  I  was 
unconsciously  counseled  by  love  of  life,  by  the  hope  of 
wearing  out  my  ill-luck  and  finding  at  the  bottom  of  this 
interminable  abyss  the  happiness  which  fled  my  grasp, 
or  whether  I  was  won  over  by  the  arguments  of  a  young 
man  of  Vendome,  whp  for  two  years  past  has  fastened 
himself  on  me  like  a  serpent  on  a  tree,  in  the  belief,  no 
doubt,  that  some  extremity  of  misfortune  may  induce  me 
to  yield  to  him.  In  fine,  I  cannot  tell  why  I  accepted 
the  odious  mission  of  making  myself  beloved  by  a 
stranger  whom  I  was  to  betray  fbr  the  price  of  three 
hundred  thousand  francs.  I  saw  you,  sir,  and  I  recog- 
nized you  at  once  by  one  of  those  presentiments  which 
never  deceive  us;  yet  I  amused  myself  by  doubting,  for 
the  more  I  loved  you,  the  more  the  conviction  of  my 
love  was  terrible  to  me.  Thus,  in  saving  you  from  the 
hands  of  Commandant  Hulot,  I  threw  up  my  part,  and 
resolved  to  deceive  the  executioners,  and  not  their 
victim.  I  was  wrong  to  play  thus  with  men's  lives, 
with  policy,  and  with  my  own  self,  after  the  fashion  of 
a  careless  girl  who  sees  nothing  in  the  world  but  senti- 
ment. I  thought  I  was  loved,  and  in  the  hope  of  a  new 
beginning  of  life  I  let  myself  drift.  But  all  things, 
myself  perhaps  included,  betrayed  my  past  excesses;  for 


336  THE    CHOUANS. 

you  must  have  had  your  suspicions  of  a  woman  so  full  of 
passion  as  I  am.  Alas!  can  anyone  refuse  pardon  to  my 
love,  and  my  dissembling?  Yes,  sir!  it  seemed  to  me 
that  I  was  awaking  from  a  long  and  painful  sleep,  and 
that  at  my  waking  I  found  myself  once  more  sixteen. 
Was  I  not  in  Alen£on,  which  was  connected  with  the 
chaste  and  pure  memories  of  my  youth?  I  was  simple 
enough,  I  was  mad  enough,  to  believe  that  love  would 
give  me  a  baptism  of  innocence.  For  a  moment  I 
thought  myself  still  a  maid  because  I  had  never  yet 
loved.  But  yesterday  evening  your  passion  seemed  to 
me  a  real  passion,  and  a  voice  asked  me,  'Why  deceive 
him?'  Know,  then,  lord  marquis,"  she  continued  in  a 
deep  tone,  which  seemed  proudly  to  challenge  reproba- 
tion, "know  it  well  that  I  am  but  a  creature  without 
honor,  unworthy  of  you.  From  this  moment  I  take  up 
my  part  of  wanton  once  more,  weary  of  playing  that  of 
a  woman  to  whom  you  had  restored  all  the  chastities  of 
the  heart.  Virtue  is  too  heavy  a  load  for  me;  and  I 
should  despise  you  if  you  were  weak  enough  to  wed  me. 
A  Count  de  Bauvan  might  commit  a  folly  of  that  kind, 
but  you,  sir,  be  worthy  of  your  own  future,  and  leave  me 
without  a  regret.  The  courtesan  in  me,  look  you,  would 
be  too  exacting;  she  would  love  you  in  another  fashion 
from  that  of  the  simple,  innocent  girl  who  felt  in  her 
heart  for  one  instant  the  exquisite  hope  of  some  day 
being  your  companion,  of  making  you  ever  happy,  of 
doing  you  honor,  of  becoming  a  noble  and  worthy  wife  to 
you;  and  who,  from  this  sentiment,  has  drawn  the  cour- 
age to  revive  her  evil  nature  of  vice  and  infamy,  in  order 
to  set  an  eternal  barrier  between  you  and  herself.  To 
you  I  sacrifice  honor  and  fortune;  my  pride  in  this  sacri- 
fice will  support  me  in  my  misery,  and  fate  may  do  with 
me  as  it  will.  I  will  never  give  you  up  to  them.  I  shall 


A    DAY   WITHOUT   A    MORROW.  337 

return  to  Paris,  where  your  name  shall  be  to  me  as 
another  self,  and  the  splendid  distinction  which  you  will 
give  it  will  console  me  for  all  my  woes.  As  for  you,  you 
are  a  man;  you  will  not  forget  me.  Farewell!" 

She  darted  away  in  the  direction  of  the  valleys  of 
Saint  Sulpice,  and  disappeared  before  the  marquis  could 
rise  to  stop  her.  But  she  doubled  back  on  her  steps, 
availed  herself  of  a  hollow  rock  as  a  hiding-place,  raised 
her  head,  scrutinized  Montauran  with  a  curiosity  which 
was  mingled  with  doubt,  and  saw  him  walking  he  knew 
not  whither,  like  a  man  overwhelmed. 

"Is  he,  then,  but  a  weakling?"  she  said,  when  he  was 
lost  to  sight,  and  she  felt  that  they  were  parted.  "Will 
he  understand  me?" 

She  shuddered;  then  she  bent  her  steps  suddenly  and 
rapidly  towards  Fougeres,  as  if  she  feared  that  the  mar- 
quis would  follow  to  the  town,  where  death  awaited  him. 

"Well,  Francine,  what  did  he  say  to  you?"  she  asked 
her  faithful  Breton  maid  when  they  met  again. 

"Alas!  Marie,  I  pity  him  !  You  great  ladies  make  your 
tongues  daggers  to  stab  men  with." 

"What  did  he  look  like,  then,  when  he  met  you?" 

"Do  you  think  he  even  saw  me?  Oh,  Marie,  he  loves 
you!  " 

"Ah,  yes,"  ahswered  she,  "he  loves  me,  or  he  loves  me 
not — two  words  which  mean  heaven  or  hell  to  me. 
Between  the  extremes  I  see  no  middle  space  on  which  I 
can  set  my  foot. " 

Having  thus  worked  out  her  terrible  fate,  Marie  could 
give  herself  up  entirely  to  sorrow;  and  the  countenance 
which  she  had  kept  up  hitherto  by  a  mixture  of  diverse 
sentiments  experienced  so  rapid  a  change  that,  after  a 
day  in  which  she  hovered  unceasingly  between  presages 
of  happiness  and  forebodings  of  despair,  she  lost  the  fresh 

22 


338  THE    CHOUANS.  ' 

and  radiant  beauty  whose  first  cause  lies  either  in  the 
absence  of  all  passion  or  in  the  intoxication  of  happi- 
ness. 

Curious  to  know  the  result  of  her  wild  enterprise, 
Hulot  and  Corentin  had  called  upon  Marie  shortly  after 
her  arrival.  She  received  them  with  a  smiling  air. 

"Well,"  said  she  to  the  commandant,  whose  anxious 
face  expressed  considerable  inquisitiveness,  "the  fox  has 
come  back  within  range  of  your  guns,  and  you  will  soon 
gain  a  glorious  victory!  " 

"What  has  happened,  then?"  asked  Corentin  carelessly, 
but  casting  on  Mile,  de  Verneuil  one  of  the  sidelong 
glances  by  which  diplomatists  of  this  stamp  spy  out 
others'  thoughts. 

"Why,"  she  answered,  "the  Gars  is  more  in  love  with 
me  than  ever,  and  I  made  him  come  with  us  up  to  the 
very  gates  of  Fougeres. " 

"It  would  appear  that  your  power  ceased  there," 
retorted  Corentin,  "and  that  the  ci-devant' 's  fear  is  stronger 
than  the  love  with  which  you  inspired  him." 

Mile,  de  Verneuil  threw  a  scornful  look  at  Corentin. 

"You  judge  him  by  yourself,"  answered  she. 

"Well,"  said  he,  without  showing  any  emotion,  "why  did 
you  not  bring  him  straight  to  us?" 

"If  he  really  loves  me,  commandant,"  said  she  to 
Hulot,  with  a  malicious  look,  "would  you  never  forgive 
me  if  I  saved  him  by  taking  him  away  from  France?" 

The  old  soldier  stepped  briskly  up  to  her,  and  seized 
her  hand  to  kiss  it,  with  a  kind  of  enthusiasm.  But 
then  he  looked  steadily  at  her  and  said,  his  face  darken- 
ing: 

"You  forget  my  two  friends  and  my  sixty-three  men!" 

"All!  commandant,"  she  said,  with  all  the  naivetJ  of 
passion,  "that  was  not  his  fault.  He  was  duped  by  a 


A    DAY   WITHOUT   A   MORROW. 


339 


wicked  woman,  Charette's  mistress,  who  I  believe  would 
drink  the  blood  of  the  Blues." 

"Come,  Marie,"  said  Corentin,  "do  not  play  tricks 
with  the  commandant;  he  does  not  understand  your 
pleasantries  yet." 

"Be  silent,"  she  answered,  "and  know  that  the  day 
when  you  become  a  little  too  repulsive  to  me  will  be 
your  last." 

"I  see,  mademoiselle,"  said  Hulot  without  bitterness, 
"that  I  must  make  ready  for  battle." 

"You  are  not  in  case  to  give  it,  my  dear  colonel.  At 
Saint  James  I  saw  that  they  had  more  than  six  thousand 
men,  with  regular  troops,  artillery,  and  English  officers. 
But  what  would  become  of  all  these  folk  without  him?  I 
hold  with  Fouche,  that  his  head  is  everything." 

"Well,  shall  we  have  his  head?"  asked  Corentin,  out  of 
patience. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  she  carelessly. 

"English!  cried  Hulot  angrily;  "that  was  the  only 
thing  wanting  to  make  him  out  and  out  a  brigand!  Ah, 
I'll  English  you,  I  will!"  But  he  added  to  Corentin, 
when  they  were  a  little  distance  from  the  house,  "It 
would  appear,  citizen  diplomatist,  that  you  let  yourself 
be  routed  at  regular  intervals  by  that  girl." 

"It  is  very  natural,  citizen  commandant,"  answered 
Corentin  thoughtfully,  "that  you  should  not  have  known 
what  to  make  of  all  she  said  to  us.  You  military  gen- 
tlemen do  not  perceive  that  there  are  more  ways  of  mak- 
ing war  than  one.  To  make  cunning  use  of  the  passions 
of  men  and  women,  as  though  they  were  springs  worked 
upon  for  the  benefit  of  the  state,  to  adjust  all  the  wheels 
in  the  mighty  machine  which  we  call  a  government,  to 
take  delight  in  shutting  up  in  it  the  most  refractory  sen- 
timents like  catch-springs,  to  be  watched  over  for  amuse- 


340  THE    CHOUANS. 

merit — is  not  this  to  be  an  actual  creator,  and  to  put 
one's  self,  like  God,  at  the  center  of  the  universe?" 

"You  will  be  good  enough  to  let  me  prefer  my  trade  to 
yours,"  replied  the  soldier  dryly.  "You  may  do  what  you 
like  with  your  machinery,  but  I  acknowledge  no  other 
superior  than  the  Minister  of  War.  I  have  my  orders;  I 
shall  begin  my  operations  with  fellows  who  will  not  sulk 
or  shirk,  and  I  shall  meet  in  front  the  foe  whom  you 
want  to  steal  on  from  behind.  " 

"Oh,  you  can  get  into  marching  order  if  you  like," 
answered  Corentin.  "From  what  the  girl  lets  me  guess, 
enigmatic  as  she  seems  to  you,  you  will  have  some  skir- 
mishing, and  I  shall  procure  you  before  long  the  pleas- 
ure of  a  tete-a-tete  with  the  brigand  chief." 

"How  so?"  said  Hulot,  stepping  back  to  get  a  better 
view  of  thi$  strange  personage. 

"Mile,  de  Verneuil  loves  the  Gars,"  said  Corentin,  in  a 
stifled  voice,  "and  perhaps  he  loves  her.  A  marquis 
with  the  red  ribbon,  young,  able,  perhaps  even  (for  who 
knows?)  still  rich — there  are  sufficient  temptations  for 
you.  She  would  be  a  fool  not  to  fight  for  her  own  hand, 
and  try  to  marry  him  rather  than  give  him  up.  She  is 
trying  to  throw  dust  in  our  eyes;  but  I  read  in  her  own 
some  irresolution.  In  all  probability  the  two  lovers  will 
have  an  assignation;  perhaps  it  is  already  arranged.  Well, 
then,  to-morrow  I  shall  have  my  man  fast !  Hitherto  he 
has  only  been  the  Republic's  enemy;  a  few  minutes 
since  he  became  mine.  Now,  every  man  who  has  taken 
a  fancy  to  get  between  me  and  that  girl  has  died  on  the 
scaffold." 

When  he  had  finished,  Corentin  fell  back  into  a  study, 
which  prevented  him  from  seeing  the  intense  disgust 
depicted  on  the  countenance  of  the  generous  soldier,  as 
he  fathomed  the  depth  of  the  intrigue  and  the  working 


A   DAY   WITHOUT   A   MORROW. 


341 


of  the  engines  employed  by  Fouche\  And  so  Hulot  made 
up  his  mind  to  thwart  Corentin  in  every  point  not  abso- 
lutely hurtful  to  the  success  and  the  objects  of  the  gov- 
ernment, and  to  give  the  Republic's  foe  the  chance  of 
dying  with  honor  and  sword  in  hand  before  becoming  the 
prey  of  the  executioner,  whose  jackal  this  agent  of  the 
superior  police  avowed  himself  to  be. 

"If  the  First  Consul  would  listen  to  me,"  said  he  to 
himself,  turning  his  back  on  Corentin,  "he  would  let 
these  foxes  and  the  aristocrats,  who  are  worthy  of  each 
other,  fight  it  out  between  them,  and  employ  soldiers  on 
very  different  business." 

Corentin  on  his  side  looked  coolly  at  the  soldier  (whose 
face  had  now  betrayed  his  thoughts),  and  his  eyes  recov- 
ered the  sardonic  expression  which  showed  the  superior 
intelligence  of  this  subaltern  Machiavel. 

"Give  three  yards  of  blue  cloth  to  brutes  of  this  kind," 
thought  he,  "stick  a  piece  of  iron  by  their  sides,  and 
they  will  fancy  that  in  politics  there  is  only  one  proper 
way  of  killing  a  man."  He  paced  up  and  down  slowly 
for  a  few  moments;  then  he  said  to  himself  suddenly: 
"Yes!  the  hour  is  come.  The  woman  shall  be  mine! 
For  five  years  the  circle  I  have  drawn  round  her  has 
narrowed,  little  by  little.  I  have  her  now,  and  with  her 
help  I  will  climb  as  high  in  the  government  as  Fouche\ 
Yes!  let  her  lose  the  one  man  she  has  loved,  and  grief 
will  give  her  to  me  body  and  soul.  It  only  remains  to 
watch  night  and  day  in  order  to  discover  her  secret." 

A  minute  later,  an  observer  might  have  descried  Coren- 
tin's  pale  face  across  the  window-panes  of  a  house 
whence  he  could  inspect  every  living  thing  that  entered 
the  cul-de-sac  formed  by  the  row  of  houses  running 
parallel  to  Saint  Leonard's  Church.  With  the  patience 
of  a  cat  watching  a  mouse,  Corentin  was  still,  on  the 


342  THE    CHOUANS. 

morning  of  the  next  day,  giving  heed  to  the  least  noise, 
and  severely  scrutinizing  every  passer-by.  The  day  then 
beginning  was  a  market-day.  Although  in  these  unfort- 
unate times  the  peasants  were  with  difficulty  induced  to 
risk  themselves  in  the  town,  Corentin  saw  a  man  of  a 
gloomy  countenance,  dressed  in  a  goatskin,  and  carrying 
on  his  arm  a  small  round  flat  basket,  who  was  making 
his  way  towards  Mile,  de  Verneuil's  house,  after  casting 
round  him  glances  indifferent  enough.  Corentin  went 
down-stairs,  intending  to  wait  for  the  peasant  when  he 
came  out;  but  suddenly  it  occurred  to  him  that  if  he 
could  make  a  sudden  appearance  at  Mile,  de  Verneuil's 
he  might  perhaps  surprise  at  a  single  glance  the  secrets  hid 
in  the  messenger's  basket.  Besides,  common  fame  had 
taught  him  that  it  was  almost  impossible  to  get  the 
better  of  the  impenetrable  answers  of  Bretons  and  Nor- 
mans. 

"Galope-Chopine!  "  cried  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  when 
Francine  ushered  in  the  Chouan.  "Can  it  be  that  I  am 
loved?"  she  added  in  a  whisper  to  herself. 

An  instinct  of  hope  shed  the  brightest  hues  over  her 
complexion,  and  diffused  joy  throughout  her  heart. 
Galope-Chopine  looked  from  the  mistress  of  the  house 
to  Francine,  his  glances  at  the  latter  being  full  of  mis- 
trust; but  a  gesture  from  Mile,  de  Verneuil  reassured 
him. 

"Madame,"  said  he,  "towards  the  stroke  of  two  he  will 
be  at  my  house,  and  will  wait  for  you  there." 

Her  emotions  allowed  Mile,  de  Verneuil  to  make  no 
other  reply  than  an  inclination  of  the  head,  but  a  Samoy- 
cde  could  have  understood  the  full  meaning  of  this. 
At  the  very  same  moment  the  steps  of  Corentin  echoed 
in  the  saloon.  Galope-Chopine  did  not  disturb  himself 
in  the  least  when  Mile,  de  Verneuil's  start  and  her  looks 


A   DAY   WITHOUT   A   MORROW.  343 

at  once  showed  him  a  danger-signal;  and  as  soon  as  the 
spy  exhibited  his  cunning  face,  the  Chouan  raised  his 
voice  ear-piercingly: 

"Oh,  yes!"  said  he  to  Francine,  "there  is  Breton  but- 
ter and  Breton  butter.  You  want  Gibarry  butter,  and 
you  will  only  give  eleven  sous  the  pound.  You  ought 
not  to  have  sent  for  me.  That  is  good  butter,  that  is!  " 
said  he,  opening  his  basket  and  showing  two  little 
pats  of  butter  of  Barbette's  making.  "You  must  pay  a 
fair  price,  good  lady.  Come,  let  us  say  another  sou!  " 

His  hollow  voice  showed  not  the  least  anxiety,  and  his 
green  eyes,  shaded  by  thick,  grizzly  eyebrows,  bore  with- 
out flinching  Corentin's  piercing  gaze. 

"Come,  good  fellow,  hold  your  tongue.  You  did  not 
come  here  to  sell  butter;  for  you  are  dealing  with  a  lady 
who  never  cheapened  anything  in  her  life.  Your  busi- 
ness, old  boy,  is  one  which  will  make  you  a  head  shorter 
some  day!  "  And  Corentin,  with  a  friendly  clap  on  the 
shoulder,  added,  "You  can't  go  on  long  serving  both 
Chouans  and  Blues." 

Galope-Chopine  had  need  of  all  his  presence  of  mind 
to  gulp  down  his  wrath  without  denying  this  charge, 
which,  owing  to  his  avarice,  was  a  true  one.  He  con- 
tented himself  with  replying: 

"The  gentleman  is  pleased  to  be  merry — 

Corentin  had  turned  his  back  on  the  Chouan,  but  in 
the  act  of  saluting  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  whose  heart  was 
in  her  mouth,  he  was  easily  able  to  keep  an  eye  on  him 
in  the  mirror.  Galope-Chopine,  who  thought  himself 
out  of  the  spy's  sight,  questioned  Francine  with  a  look, 
and  Francine  pointed  to  the  door,  saying:  "Come  with 
me,  good  man;  we  shall  come  to  terms,  no  doubt." 

Nothing  had  escaped  Corentin,  neither  the  tightened 
lips  which  Mile,  de  Verneuil's  smile  hid  but  ill,  nor  her 


344  .  THE  CHOUANS. 

blush,  nor  her  altered  expression,  nor  the  Chouan's 
anxiety,  nor  Francine's  gesture.  He  had  seen  it  all  ;  and, 
convinced  that  Galope-Chopine  was  an  emissary  of  the 
marquis,  he  stopped  him  as  he  was  going  out,  by  catch- 
ing hold  of  the  long  hair  of  his  goatskin,  brought  him 
in  front  of  himself,  and  looked  straight  at  him,  saying: 

"Where  do  you  live,  good  friend?     /want  some  butter. " 

"Good  gentleman,"  answered  the  Chouan,  "all  Fou- 
geres  knows  where  I  live.  I  am,  as  you  may  say — 

"Corentin!"  cried  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  interrupting 
Galope-Chopine' s  answer,  "you  are  very  forward  to  pay 
me  visits  at  this  hour,  and  to  catch  me  like  this,  scarcely 
dressed.  Let  the  peasant  alone.  He  does  not  under- 
stand your  tricks  any  more  than  I  understand  their  object. 
Go,  good  fellow." 

Galope-Chopine  hesitated  for  a  moment  before  going. 
His  irresolution,  whether  it  were  real  or  feigned,  as  of  a 
poor  wretch  who  did  not  know  which  of  the  two  to  obey, 
had  already  begun  to  impose  on  Corentin,  when  the 
Chouan,  at  a  commanding  signal  from  the  young  lady, 
departed  with  heavy  steps.  Mile,  de  Verneuil  and  Co- 
rentin gazed  at  each  other  in  silence;  and  this  time 
Marie's  clear  eyes  could  not  endure  the  blaze  of  dry 
light  which  poured  from  the  man's  looks.  The  air  of 
resolve  with  which  the  spy  had  entered  the  room,  an 
expression  on  his  face  which  was  strange  to  Marie,  the 
dull  sound  of  his  squeaky  voice,  his  attitude — all 
alarmed  her;  she  understood  that  a  secret  struggle  was 
beginning  between  them,  and  that  he  was  straining  all 
the  power  of  his  sinister  influence  against  her.  But  if 
at  the  moment  she  caught  a  full  and  distinct  view  of  the 
abyss  towards  which  she  was  hastening,  she  drew  from 
her  love  strength  to  shake  off  the  icy  chill  of  her  pre- 
sentiments. 


A   DAY   WITHOUT    A   MORROW.  345 

"Corentin!"  she  said,  merrily  enough,  "I  hope  you 
will  be  good  enough  to  allow  me  to  finish  my  toilette." 

"Marie,"  said  he — "yes,  give  me  leave  to  call  you  so 
— you  do  not  know  me  yet.  Listen!  a  less  sharp-sighted 
man  than  myself  would  have  already  discovered  your 
affection  for  the  Marquis  of  Montauran.  I  have  again 
and  again  offered  you  my  heart  and  my  hand.  You  did 
not  think  me  worthy  of  you,  and  perhaps  you  are  right. 
But  if  you  think  your  station  too  lofty,  your  beauty  or 
your  mind  too  great  for  me,  I  can  find  means  to  draw 
you  down  to  my  level.  My  ambition  and  my  precepts 
have  not  inspired  you  with  much  esteem  for  me,  and 
here,  to  speak  frankly,  you  are  wrong.  Men,  as  a  rule, 
are  not  worth  even  my  estimate  of  them,  which  is  next 
to  nothing.  I  shall  attain  of  a  certainty  to  a  high  posi- 
tion, the  honors  of  which  will  please  you.  Who  can 
love  you  better,  who  can  make  you  more  completely 
mistress  of  himself  than  the  man  who  has  already  loved 
you  for  five  years?  Although  I  run  the  risk  of  seeing 
you  conceive  an  unfavorable  idea  of  me  (for  you  do  not 
believe  it  possible  to  renounce  the  person  one  adores 
through  mere  excess  of  love),  I  will  give  you  the  meas- 
ure of  the  disinterestedness  of  my  affection  for  you.  Do 
not  shake  your  pretty  head  in  that  way.  If  the  marquis 
loves  you,  marry  him;  but  make  yourself  quite  sure  first 
of  his  sincerity.  I  should  be  in  despair  if  I  knew  you 
had  been  deceived,  for  I  prefer  your  happiness  to  my 
own.  My  resolution  may  surprise  you;  but  pray  attrib- 
ute it  to  nothing  but  the  common  sense  of  a  man  who 
is  not  fool  enough  to  wish  to  possess  a  woman  against 
her  will.  And  so  it  is  myself,  and  not  you,  whom  I 
hold  guilty  of  the  uselessness  of  my  efforts.  I  hope  to 
gain  you  by  force  of  submission  and  devotion,  for,  as 
you  know,  I  have  long  sought  to  make  you  happy  after  my 


346  THE    CHOUANS. 

own  fashion,  but  you  have  never  chosen  to  reward  me  in 
any  way. " 

"I  have  endured  your  company,"  she  said  haughtily. 

"Add  that  you  are  sorry  for  having  done  so." 

"After  the  disgraceful  plot  in  which  you  have  en- 
tangled me,  must  I  still  thank  you?" 

"When  I  suggested  to  you  an  enterprise  which  was 
not  blameless  in  the  eyes  of  timid  souls,"  answered  he 
boldly,  "I  had  nothing  but  your  good  fortune  in  view. 
For  my  own  part,  whether  I  win  or  fail,  I  shall  find 
means  of  making  either  result  useful  to  the  success  of 
my  designs.  If  you  married  Montauran,  I  should  be 
charmed  to  do  yeoman's  service  to  the  Bourbon  cause  at 
Paris,  where  I  belong  to  the  Clichy  Club.  Any  incident 
which  put  me  in  communication  with  the  princes  would 
decide  me  to  abandon  the  interests  of  a  Republic  which 
is  rapidly  hastening  to  its  decline  and  fall.  General 
Bonaparte  is  too  clever  not  to  feel  that  he  cannot  be  in 
Germany,  in  Italy,  and  here,  where  the  Revolution  is 
succumbing,  all  at  once.  It  is  pretty  clear  that  he 
brought  about  the  i8th  Brumaire  only  to  stand  on  better 
terms  with  the  Bourbons  in  treating  with  them  concern- 
ing France,  for  he  is  a  fellow  with  his  wits  about  him, 
and  with  foresight  enough.  But  men  of  policy  must 
anticipate  him  on  his  own  road.  A  scruple  about  betray- 
ing France  is  but  one  more  of  those  which  we  men  of 
parts  leave  to  fools.  I  will  not  hide  from  you  that  I 
have  all  necessary  powers  for  treating  with  the  Chouan 
chiefs,  as  well  as  for  arranging  their  ruin.  My  patron, 
Fouche,  is  deep  enough,  and  has  always  played  a  double 
game.  During  the  Terror  he  was  at  once  for  Robespierre 
and  for  Danton  — 

"Whom  you  basely  deserted,"  said  she. 

"Nonsense!  "  answered  Corentin.      "He   is  dead;    think 


A    DAY    WITHOUT   A    MORROW.  347 

not  of  him.  Come!  speak  to  me  frankly,  since  I  have 
set  you  the  example.  This  demi-brigadier  is  sharper 
than  he  looks,  and  if  you  wish  to  outwit  his  vigilance  I 
might  be  of  some  service  to  you.  Remember  that  he  has 
filled  the  valleys  with  counter-Chouans,  and  would 
quickly  get  wind  of  your  rendezvous.  If  you  stay  here 
under  his  eyes,  you  are  at  the  mercy  of  his  police.  Only 
see  how  quickly  he  found  out  that  this  Chouan  was  in 
your  house!  Must  not  his  sagacity  as  a  soldier  show 
him  that  your  least  movements  will  be  a  tell-tale  to  him 
of  those  of  the  marquis,  if  the  marquis  loves  you?" 

Mile,  de  Verneuil  had  never  heard  a  voice  so  gentl> 
affectionate.  Corentin  seemed  to  speak  in  entire  good 
faith  and  full  trust.  The  poor  girl's  heart  was  so  sus- 
ceptible to  generous  impressions  that  she  was  on  the 
point  of  yielding  her  secret  to  the  serpent  who  was  wind- 
ing his  coils  round  her.  But  she  bethought  her  that 
there  was  no  proot  of  the  sincerity  of  this  artful  language, 
and  so  she  had  no  scruple  in  duping  him  who  was  act- 
ing the  spy  on  her. 

"Well,  Corentin,"  said  she,  "you  have  guessed  aright. 
Yes,  I  love  the  marquis,  but  he  loves  not  me;  at  least, 
I  fear  it,  for  the  rendezvous  which  he  has  given  me 
seems  to  hide  some  trap." 

"But,"  said  Corentin,  "you  told  us  yesterday  that  he 
had  accompanied  you  to  Fougeres.  Had  he  wished  to 
use  violence  towards  you,  you  would  not  be  here." 

"Corentin,  your  heart  is  seared.  You  can  calculate 
scientifically  on  the  course  of  human  life  in  general, 
and  yet  not  on  those  of  a  single  passion.  Perhaps  this 
is  the  reason  of  the  constant  repulsion  I  feel  for  you. 
But  since  you  are  so  perspicacious,  try  to  guess  why  a  man 
from  whom  I  parted  roughly  the  clay  before  yesterday  is 


3-J.H  THE    CHOUANS. 

impatiently  expecting  me  to-day  on  the  Mayenne  road,  in 
a  house  at  Florigny,  towards  evening." 

At  this  confession,  which  seemed  to  have  escaped  her 
in  a  moment  of  excitement  natural  enough  to  a  creature 
so  frank  and  so  passionate,  Corentin  flushed;  for  he  was 
still  young.  He  cast  sidewise  on  her  one  of  those  pierc- 
ing glances  which  quest  for  the  soul.  Mile,  de  Ver- 
neuil's  naivett  was  so  well  feigned  that  she  deceived  the 
spy,  and  he  answered  with  artificial  good-nature: 

"Would  you  like  me  to  accompany  you  at  a  distance? 
I  would  take  some  disguised  soldiers  with  me,  and  we 
should  be  at  your  orders." 

"Agreed,"  she  said;  "but  promise  me  on  your  honor — 
ah,  no!  I  do  not  believe  in  that;  on  your  salvation — but 
you  do  not  believe  in  God;  on  your  soul — but  perhaps 
you  have  none.  What  guarantee  of  fidelity  can  you  give 
me?  Still,  I  will  trust  you,  and  I  put  in  your  hands 
what  is  more  than  my  life — either  my  vengeance  or  my 
love! " 

The  faint  smile  which  appeared  on  Corentin's  pale 
countenance  acquainted  Mile,  de  Verneuil  with  the 
danger  she  had  just  avoided.  The  agent,  his  nostrils 
contracting  instead  of  dilating,  took  his  victim's  hand, 
kissed  it  with  marks  of  the  deepest  respect,  and  left 
her  with  a  bow  which  was  not  devoid  of  elegance. 
Three  hours  after  this  interview,  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  who 
feared  Corentin's  return,  slipped  furtively  out  of  the 
gate  of  Saint  Leonard,  and  gained  the  little  path  of  the 
Nid-aux-Crocs,  leading  to  the  Nancon  Valley.  She 
thought  herself  safe  as  she  passed  unnoticed  through  the 
labyrinth  of  tracks  leading  to  Galope-Chopine's  cabin, 
whither  she  advanced  gayly,  led  by  the  hope  of  at  last 
finding  happiness,  and  by  the  desire  of  extricating  her 
lover  from  his  threatened  fate.  Meanwhile  Corentin 


A    DAY   WITHOUT   A    MORROW.  349 

was  engaged  in  hunting  for  the  commandant.  It  was 
with  difficulty  that  he  recognized  Hulot  when  he  found 
him  in  a  small  open  space,  where  he  was  busy  with 
some  military  preparations.  The  brave  veteran  had 
indeed  made  a  sacrifice,  the  merit  of  which  can  hardly 
be  put  sufficiently  high.  His  pigtail  and  his  moustaches 
were  shaved,  and  his  hair,  arranged' like  a  priest's,  had  a 
dash  of  powder.  Shod  with  great  hobnailed  shoes,  his 
old  blue  uniform  and  his  sword  exchanged  for  a  goat- 
skin, a  belt  garnished  with  pistols,  and  a  heavy  rifle,  he 
was  inspecting  two  hundred  men  of  Fougeres,  whose 
dress  might  have  deceived  the  eyes  of  the  most  experi- 
enced Chouan.  The  warlike  spirit  of  the  little  town 
and  the  Breton  character  were  both  exhibited  in  this 
scene,  which  was  not  the  first  of  its  kind.  Here  and 
there  mothers  and  sisters  were  bringing  to  their  sons  and 
brothers  brandy-flasks  or  pistols  which  had  been  forgotten. 
More  than  one  old  man  was  examining  the  number  and 
goodness  of  the  cartridges  carried  by  these  National 
Guards,  who  were  disguised  as  counter-Chouans,  and 
whose  cheerfulness  seemed  rather  to  indicate  a  hunting- 
party  than  a  dangerous  expedition.  For  them,  the  skir- 
mishes of  the  Chouan  war,  where  the  Bretons  of  the 
towns  fought  with  the  Bretons  of  the  country,  seemed  to 
have  taken  the  place  of  the  tourneys  of  chivalry.  This 
patriotic  enthusiasm  perhaps  owed  its  origin  to  the 
acquisition  of  some  of  the  confiscated  property;  but 
much  of  its  ardor  was  also  due  to  the  better  apprecia- 
tion of  the  benefits  of  the  Revolution  which  existed  in 
the  towns,  to  party  fidelity,  and  to  a  certain  love  of  war, 
characteristic  of  the  race.  Hulot  was  struck  with 
admiration  as  he  went  through  the  ranks  asking  infor- 
mation from  Gudin,  on  whom  he  had  bestowed  all  the 
friendly  feeling  which  had  formerly  been  allotted  to 


35O  THE    CHOUANS. 

Merle  and  Gerard.  A  considerable  number  of  the  towns- 
men were  spectators  of  the  preparations  for  the  expedi- 
tion, and  were  able  to  compare  the  bearing  of  their 
noisy  comrades  with  that  of  a  battalion  of  Hulot's  demi- 
brigade.  The  Blues,  motionless,  in  faultless  line,  and 
silent,  waited  for  the  orders  of  the  commandant,  whom 
the  eyes  of  each  soldier  followed  as  he  went  from  group 
to  group.  When  he  came  up  to  the  old  officer,  Corentin 
could  not  help  smiling  at  the  change  in  Hulot's  appear- 
ance. He  looked  like  a  portrait  which  has  lost  its  resem- 
blance to  the  original. 

"What  is  up?"  asked  Corentin  of  him. 

"Come  and  fire  a  shot  with  us,  and  you  will  know," 
answered  the  commandant. 

"Oh!    I  am  not  a  Fougeres  man,"  replied  Corentin. 

"We  can  all  see  that,  citizen,"  said  Gudin;  and  some 
mocking  laughter  came  from  the  neighboring  groups. 

"Do  you  think,"  retorted  Corentin,  "that  there  is  no 
way  of  saving  France  but  with  bayonets?"  and  he  turned 
his  back  on  the  laughers,  and  addressed  himself  to  a 
woman  in  order  to  learn  the  purpose  and  destination  of 
this  expedition. 

"Alas!  good  sir,  the  Chouans  are  already  at  Florigny. 
'Tis  said  that  there  are  more  than  three  thousand  of  them, 
and  that  they  are  coming  to  take  Fougeres. " 

"Florigny!"  cried  Corentin,  growing  pale;  "then,  that 
cannot  be  the  meeting-place!  Do  you  mean,"  he  went 
on,  "Florigny  on  the  Mayenne  road?" 

"There  are  not  two  Florignys, "  answered  the  woman, 
pointing  to  the  road  which  ended  at  the  top  of  the  Pil- 
grim. 

"Are  you  going  after  the  Marquis  of  Montauran?" 
asknl  Corentin  of  the  commandant. 

"Rather,  '  answered  Hulot  roughly. 


A   DAY   WITHOUT   A   MORROW.  351 

"He  is  not  at  Florigny, "  replied  Corentin.  "Send  your 
battalion  and  the  National  Guards  thither,  but  keep 
some  of  your  counter-Chouans  with  yourself,  and  wait 
for  me. " 

"He  is  too  sly  to  be  mad,"  cried  the  commandant,  as 
he  saw  Corentin  stride  hastily  off.  '  'Tis  certainly  the 
king  of  spies. " 

At  the  same  time  he  gave  his  battalion  the  order  to 
march,  and  the  Republican  soldiers  went  silently,  and 
without  beat  of  drum,  through  the  narrow  suburb  which 
leads  to  the  Mayenne  road,  marking  against  the  houses 
and  the  trees  a  long  line  of  blue  and  red.  The  disguised 
National  Guards  followed  them,  but  Hulot  remained  in 
the  little  square,  with  Gudin  and  a  score  of  picked  young 
townsmen,  waiting  for  Corentin,  whose  air  of  mystery  had 
excited  his  curiosity.  Francine  herself  told  the  wary 
spy  of  the  departure  of  Mile,  de  Verneuil; 'all  his  suspi- 
cions at  once  became  certainties,  and  he  went  forth  to 
gain  new  light  on  this  deservedly  questionable  absence. 
Learning  from  the  guard  at  the  Porte  Saint  Leonard  that 
the  fair  stranger  had  passed  by  the  Nid-aux-Crocs,  Coren- 
tin ran  to  the  walks,  and,  as  ill-luck  would  have  it, 
reached  them  just  in  time  to  perceive  all  Marie's  move- 
ments. Although  she  had  put  on  a  gown  and  hood  of 
green  in  order  to  be  less  conspicuous,  the  quick  motion 
of  her  almost  frenzied  steps  showed  clearly  enough, 
through  the  leafless  and  hoar-frosted  hedges,  the  direc- 
tion of  her  journey. 

"Ah! "  cried  he,  "you  ought  to  be  making  for  Flo- 
rigny, and  you  are  going  down  towards  the  valley  of 
Gibarry!  I  am  but  a  simpleton:  she  has  duped  me.  But 
patience!  I  can  light  my  lamp  by  day  as  well  as  by 
night."  And  then,  having  pretty  nearly  guessed  the 
place  of  the  lovers'  assignation,  he  ran  to  the  square  at 


352  THL    CHOCANS. 

the  very  moment  when  Hulot  was  about  to  quit   it   and 
follow  up  his  troops. 

"Halt,  general!"  he  cried  to  the  commandant,  who 
turned  back. 

In  a  moment  Corentin  had  acquainted  the  soldier  with 
incidents,  the  connecting  web  of  which,  though  hid, 
had  allowed  some  of  its  threads  to  appear;  and  Hulot, 
struck  by  the  agent's  shrewdness,  clutched  his  arm 
briskly. 

"A  thousand  thunders!  Citizen  Inquisitive,  you  are 
right!  The  brigands  are  making  a  feint  down  there! 
The  two  flying-  columns  that  I  sent  to  beat  the  neighbor- 
hood between  the  Antrain  and  the  Vitr6  roads  have  not 
come  back  yet,  and  so  we  shall  find  in  the  country  rein- 
forcements which  will  be  useful,  for  the  Gars  is  not  fool 
enough  to  tisk  himself  without  his  cursed  screech-owls 
at  hand.  Gudin!  "  said  he  to  the  young  Fougeres  man, 
run  and  tell  Captain  Lebrun  that  he  can  do  without  me 
in  drubbing  the  brigands  at  Florigny,  and  then  come 
back  in  no  time.  You  know  the  by-paths.  I  shall  wait 
for  you  to  hunt  up  the  ci-devant  and  avenge  the  murders 
at  the  Vivetiere.  God's  thunder!  how  he  runs!  "  added 
he,  looking  at  Gudin,  who  vanished  as  if  by  magic. 
"Would  not  Gerard  have  loved  the  boy!" 

When  he  came  back,  Gudin  found  Hulot's  little  force 
increased  by  some  soldiers  drawn  from  the  various 
guard-houses  of  the  town.  The  commandant  bade  the 
young  man  pick  out  a  dozen  of  his  fellow-townsmen  who 
had  most  experience  in  the  difficult  business  of  counter 
feiting  the  Chouans,  and  ordered  him  to  make  his  way 
by  Saint  Leonard's  Gate,  so  as  to  take  the  route  to  the 
rear  of  the  heights  of  Saint  Sulpice  facing  the  great 
valley  of  the  Couesnon,  where  was  the  cottage  of  Galope- 
Chopine.  Then  he  put  himself  at  the  head  of  the  rest 


A   DAY   WITHOUT   A   MORROW.  353 

of  the  force,  and  left  by  the  Porte  Saint  Sulpice,  mean- 
ing to  gain  the  crest  of  the  hills  where  he,  according  to 
his  plans,  expected  to  meet  Beau-Pied  and  his  men. 
With  these  he  intended  to  strengthen  a  cordon  of  sen- 
tries whose  business  was  to  watch  the  rocks  from  the 
Faubourg  Saint  Sulpice  to  the  Nid-aux-Crocs.  Corentin, 
confident  that  he  had  placed  the  fate  of  the  Chouan 
chief  in  the  hands  of  his  most  implacable  enemies,  went 
rapidly  to  the  promenade  in  order  to  get  a  better  view 
of  Hulot's  dispositions  as  a  whole.  'It  was  not  long 
before  he  saw  Gudin's  little  party  debouching  by  the 
Nancon  dale,  and  following  the  rocks  along  the  side  of 
the  great  Couesnon  Valley;  while  Hulot,  slipping  out* 
along  the  castle  of  Fougeres,  climbed  the  dangerous 
path  which  led  to  the  crest  of  the  Saint  Sulpice  crags. 
In  this  manner  the  two  parties  were  working  on  parallel 
lines.  The  trees  and  bushes,  richly  arabesqued  by  the 
hoar-frost,  threw  over  the  country  a  white  gleam,  against 
which  it  was  easy  to  see  the  two  detachments  moving 
like  gray  lines.  As  soon  as  he  had  arrived  at  the  table- 
land on  the  top  of  the  rocks,  Hulot  separated  from  his 
force  all  those  soldiers  who  were  in  uniform  :  and  Coren- 
tin saw  them,  under  the  skillful  orders  of  the  comman- 
dant, drawing  up  a  line  of  perambulating  sentinels,  parted 
each  from  each  by  a  suitable  space;  the  first  was  to  be 
in  touch  with  Gudin  and  the  last  with  Hulot,  so  that 
not  so  much  as  a  bush  could  escape  the  bayonets  of  these 
three  moving  lines  who  were  about  to  track  down  the 
Gars  across  the  hills  and  fields. 

"He  is  cunning,  the  old  watch-dog!  "  cried  Corentin, 
as  he  lost  sight  of  the  last  flashes  of  the  gun  barrels 
amid  the  ajoncs.  "The  Gars'  goose  is  cooked!  If  Marie 


*  The  word  used,  dibusquant,  is  the  technical  sporting  term  for  a  wolf  reaving 
its  lair.  —  Translator's  Note. 


354  THK  CHOUANS. 

had  betrayed  this  d — d  marquis,  she  and  I  should  have 
been  united  by  the  firmest  of  all  ties,  that  of  disgrace. 
But  all  the  same,  she  shall  be  mine!  " 

The  twelve  young  men  of  Fougeres,  led  by  Sub-lieuten- 
ant Gudin,  soon  gained  the  slope  where  the  Saint  Sulpice 
crags  sink  down  in  smaller  hills  to  the  Valley  of 
Gibarry.  Gudin,  for  his  part,  left  the  roads,  and  jumped 
lightly  over  the  bar  of  the  first  broom-field  he  came  to, 
being  followed  by  six  of  his  fellows;  the  others,  by  his 
orders,  made  their  way  into  the  fields  towards  the  right, 
so  as  to  beat  the  ground  on  each  side  of  the  road. 
Gudin  darted  briskly  towards  an-  apple-tree  which  stood 
in  the  midst  of  the  broom.  At  the  rustle  made  by  the 
march  of  the  six  counter-Chouans  whom  he  led  across 
this  broom  forest,  trying  not  to  disturb  its  frosted  tufts, 
seven  or  eight  men,  at  whose  head  was  Beau-Pied,  hid 
themselves  behind  some  chestnut  trees  which  crowned  the 
hedge  of  the  field.  Despite  the  white  gleam  which 
lighted  up  the  country,  and  despite  their  own  sharp  eye- 
sight, the  Fougeres  party  did  not  at  first  perceive  the 
others,  who  had  sheltered  themselves  behind  the  trees. 

"Hist!  here  they  are!"  said  Beau-Pied,  the  first  to 
raise  his  head,  "the  brigands  have  got  in  front  of  us;  but 
as  we  have  got  them  at  the  end  of  our  guns,  don't  let  us 
miss  them,  or,  by  Jove!  we  shan't  deserve  to  be  even 
the  Pope's  soldiers!" 

However,  Gudin's  piercing  eyes  had  at  last  noticed 
certain  gun-barrels  leveled  at  his  little  party.  At  the 
same  moment,  with  a  bitter  mockery,  eight  deep  voices 
cried  " Qui  virc?"  and  eight  gunshots  followed.  The 
balls  whistled  round  the  counter-Chouans,  of  whom  one 
received  a  wound  in  the  arm,  and  another  fell.  The  five 
men  of  Fougeres  who  remained  unhurt  answered  with  a 
volley,  shouting,  "Friends!"  Then  they  rushed  upon  their 


A   DAY   WITHOUT  A   MORROW.  355 

supposed  enemies   so  as  to  close  with   them  before  they 
could  reload. 

"We  did  not  know  we  spoke  so  much  truth!"  cried  the 
young  sub-lieutenant,  as  he  recognized  the  uniform  and 
the  battered  hats  of  his  own  demi-brigade.  "We  have 
done  like  true  Bretons — fought  first,  and  asked  questions 
afterwards. " 

The  eight  soldiers  stood  astounded  as  they  recognized 
Gudin.  "Confound  it.  sir!  Who  the  devil  would  not 
have  taken  you  for  brigands  with  your  goatskins?"  cried 
Beau-Pied  mournfully. 

"It  is  a  piece  of  ill  luck,  and  nobody  is  to  blame, 
since  you  had  no  notice  that  our  counter-Chouans  were 
going  to  make  a  sally.  But  what  have  you  been  doing?" 
"We  are  hunting  a  dozen  Chouans,  sir,  who  are  amus- 
ing themselves  by  breaking  our  backs.  We  have  been 
running  like  poisoned  rats;  and  what  with  jumping  over 
these  bars  and  hedges  (may  thunder  confound  them!  )  our 
legs  are  worn  out,  and  we  were  taking  a  rest.  I  think  the 
brigands  must  be  now  somewhere  about  the  hut  where 
you  see  the  smoke  rising." 

"Good!  "  cried  Gudin.  "Fall  back,"  added  he  to  Beau- 
Pied  and  his  eight  men,  "across  the  fields  to  the  Saint 
Sulpice  rocks,  and  support  the  line  of  sentries  that  the 
commandant  has  posted  there.  You  must  not  stay  with 
us,  because  you  are  in  uniform.  Odds  cartridges!  We 
are  trying  to  get  hold  of  the  dogs,  for  the  Gars  is  among 
them.  Your  comrades  will  tell  you  more  than  I  can. 
File  to  the  right,  and  don't  pull  trigger  on  six  others  of 
our  goatskins  that  you  may  meet !  You  will  know  our 
counter-Chouans  by  their  neckerchiefs,  which  are  coiled 
round  Without  a  knot." 

Gudin  deposited  his  two  wounded  men  under  the  apple- 
tree,  and  continued  his  way  to  Galope-Chopine's  house, 


356  THE    CHOUANS. 

which  Beau-Pied  had  just  pointed  out  to  him,  and  the 
smoke  of  which  served  as  a  landmark.  While  the  young 
officer  had  thus  got  on  the  track  of  the  Chouans  by  a 
collision  common  enough  in  this  war,  but  which  might 
have  had  more  fatal  results,  the  little  detachment  which 
Hulot  himself  commanded  had  reached  on  its  own  line 
of  operations  a  point  parallel  to  that  at  which  Gudin  had 
arrived  on  his.  The  old  soldier,  at  the  head  of  his 
counter-Chouans,  slipped  silently  among  the  hedges  with 
all  the  eagerness  of  a  young  man,  and  jumped  the  bars 
with  sufficient  agility,  directing  his  restless  eyes  to  all 
the  points  that  commanded  them,  and  pricking  up  his 
ears  like  a  hunter  at  the  least  noise.  In  the  third  field 
which  he  entered  he  perceived  a  woman,  some  thirty 
years  old,  busy  in  hoeing  the  soil,  and  working  hard  in 
a  stooping  posture;  while  a  little  boy,  about  seven  or. 
eight  years  old,  armed  with  a  bill-hook,  was  shaking 
rime  off  some  a/ones  which  had  sprung  up  here  and  there, 
cutting  them  down,  and  piling  them  in  heaps.  At  the 
noise  which  Hulot  made  in  alighting  heavily  across  the 
bar,  the  little  gars  and  his  mother  raised  their  heads. 
Hulot  naturally  enough  mistook  the  woman,  young  as 
she  was,  for  a  crone.  Premature  wrinkles  furrowed  her 
forehead  and  neck,  and  she  was  so  oddly  clothed  in  a 
worn  goatskin,  that  had  it  not  been  that  her  sex  was 
indicated  by  a  dirty  yellow  linen  gown,  Hulot  would  not 
have  known  whether  she  was  man  or  woman,  for  her  long 
black  tresses  were  hidden  under  a  red  woolen  night-cap. 
The  rags  in  which  the  small  boy  was  clothed,  after  a 
fashion,  showed  his  skin  through  them. 

"Hullo,  old  woman!"  said  Hulot  in  a  lowered  voice  to 
her  as  he  drew  near,  "where  is  the  Gars?"  At  the  same 
moment  the  score  of  counter-Chouans  who  followed  him 
crossed  the  boundary  of  the  field. 


A   DAY  WITHOUT  A   MORROW. 


357 


"Oh!  to  get  to  the  Gars  you  must  go  back  the  way  you 
came,"  answered  the  woman,  after  casting  a  distrustful 
glance  on  the  party. 

"Did  I  ask  you  the  way  to  the  suburb  of  the  Gars  at 
Fougeres,  old  bag  of  bones?"  replied  Hulot  roughly. 
"Saint  Anne  of  Auray!  Have  you  seen  the  Gars  pass?" 


"I  do  not  know  what  you  mean,"  said  the  woman,  bend- 
ing down  to  continue  her  work. 

"D — d  garce  that  you  are!  Do  you  want  the  Blues, 
who  are  after  us,  to  gobble  us  up?"  cried  Hulot. 

At  these  words  the  woman  lifted  herself  up  and  cast 
another  suspicious  look  at  the  counter-Chouans  as  she 
answered,  "How  can  the  Blues  be  after  you?  I  saw 


358  THK    CHOUANS. 

seven  or  eight  of  them  just  now  going  back  to  Fougeres 
by  the  road  down  there. " 

"Would  not  a  man  say  that  she  looks  like  biting  us?" 
said  Hulot.  "Look  there,  old  Nanny!  " 

And  the  commandant  pointed  out  to  her,  some  fifty 
paces  behind,  three  or  four  of  his  sentinels,  whose  uni- 
forms and  guns  were  unmistakable. 

"Do  you  want  to  have  our  throats  cut,  when  Marche-a- 
Terre  has  sent  us  to  help  the  Gars,  whom  the  men  of 
Fougeres  are  trying  to  catch?"  he  went  on  angrily. 

"Your  pardon,"  answered  the  woman;  "but  one  is  so 
easily  deceived!  What  parish  do  you  come  from?" 
asked  she. 

"From  Saint  George!  "  cried  two  or  three  of  the  men 
of  Fougeres  in  Low  Breton;  "and  we  are  dying  of 
hunger!" 

"Well,  then,  look  here,"  said  the  woman;  "do  you  see 
that  smoke  there?  that  is  my  house.  If  you  take  the 
paths  on  the  right  and  keep  up,  you  will  get  there. 
Perhaps  you  will  meet  my  husband  by  the  way — Galope- 
Chopine  has  got  to  stand  sentinel  to  warn  the  Gars,  for 
you  know  he  is  coming  to  our  house  to-day,"  added  she 
with  piide. 

"Thanks,  good  woman,"  answered  Hulot.  "Forward, 
men!  By  God's  thunder!"  added  he,  speaking  to  his 
followers,  "we  have  got  him!" 

At  these  words  the  detachment,  breaking  into  a  run, 
followed  the  commandant,  who  plunged  into  the  path 
pointed  out  to  him.  When  she  heard  the  self-styled 
Chouan's  by  no  means  Catholic  imprecation,  Galope-Cho- 
pine's  wife  turned  pale.  She  looked  at  the  gaiters  and 
goatskins  of  the  Fougeres  youth,  sat  down  on  the  ground, 
clasped  her  child  in  her  arms,  and  said: 

"The    Holy    Virgin    of    Auray    and    the    blessed   Saint 


A    DAY  WITHOUT  A   MORROW.  359 

Labre  have  mercy  upon  us!  I  do  not  believe  that  they 
are  our  folk:  their  shoes  have  no  nails!  Run  by  the 
said  lower  road  to  warn  your  father :  his  head  is  at  stake!  " 
she  to  the  little  boy,  who  disappeared  like  a  fawn 
through  the  broom  and  the  ajoncs. 

Mile,  de  Verneuil,  however,  had  not  met  on  her  way 
any  of  the  parties  of  Blues  or  Chouans  who  were  hunting 
each  other  in  the  maze  of  fields  that  lay  round  Galope- 
Chopine's  cottage.  When  she  saw  a  bluish  column  ris- 
ing from  the  half-shattered  chimney  of  the  wretched 
dwelling,  her  heart  underwent  one  of  those  violent  pal- 
pitations, the  quick  and  sounding  throbs  of  which  seem 
to  surge  up  to  the  throat.  She  stopped,  leaned  her  hand 
against  a  tree-branch,  and  stared  at  the  smoke  which  was 
to  be  a  beacon  at  once  to  the  friends  and  enemies  of  the 
young  chief.  Never  had  she  felt  such  overpowering 
emotion. 

"Oh!"  she  said  to  herself  with  a  sort  of  despair,  "I 
love  him  too  much!  It  may  be  I  shall  lose  command  of 
myself  to-day  !" 

Suddenly  she  crossed  the  space  which  separated  her 
from  the  cottage,  and  found  herself  in  the  yard,  the  mud 
of  which  had  been  hardened  by  the  frost.  The  great  dog 
once  more  flew  at  her,  barking;  but  at  a  single  word 
pronounced  by  Galope-Chopine,  he  held  his  tongue  and 
wagged  his  tail.  As  she  entered  the  cabin,  Mile,  de  Ver- 
neuil threw  into  it  an  all-embracing  glance.  The  mar- 
quis was  not  there;  and  Marie  breathed  more  freely.  She 
observed  with  pleasure  that  the  Chouan  had  exerted 
himself  to  restore  some  cleanliness  to  the  dirty  single 
chamber  of  his  lair.  Galope-Chopine  grasped  his  duck- 
gun,  bowed  silently  to  his  guest,  and  went  out  with  his 
dog.  She  followed  him  to  the  doorstep,  and  saw  him 
departing  by  the  path  which  went  to  the  right  of  his 


360  THE    CHOUANS. 

hut,  and  the  entrance  of  which  was  guarded  by  a  large 
rotten  tree,  which  served  as  an  tchalier,  though  one 
almost  in  ruins.  Thence  she  could  perceive  a  range  of 
fields,  the  bars  of  which  showed  like  a  vista  of  gates,  for 
the  trees  and  hedges,  stripped  bare,  allowed  full  view 
of  the  least  details  of  the  landscape.  When  Galope- 
Chopine's  broad  hat  had  suddenly  disappeared,  Mile,  de 
Verneuil  turned  to  the  left  to  look  for  the  church  of 
Fougeres,  but  the  outhouse  hid  it  from  her  wholly.  Then 
she  cast  her  eyes  on  the  Couesnon  Valley,  lying  before 
t'lem  like  a  huge  sheet  of  muslin,  whose  whiteness  dulled 
yet  further  a  sky  gra)?-tinted  and  loaded  with  snow.  It 
was  one  of  those  days  when  nature  seems  speechless,  and 
when  the  atmosphere  sucks  up  all  noises.  Thus,  though 
the  Blues  and  their  counter-Chouans  were  marching  on 
the  hut  in  three  lines,  forming  a  triangle,  which  they 
contracted  as  they  came  nearer,  the  silence  was  so  pro- 
found that  Mile,  de  Verneuil  felt  oppressed  by  sur- 
roundings which  added  to  her  mental  anguish  a  kind  of 
physical  sadness.  There  was  ill-fortune  in  the  air. 
At  last,  at  the  point  where  a  little  curtain  of  wood  termi- 
nated the  vista  of  echaliers,  she  saw  a  young  man  leap- 
ing the  barriers  like  a  squirrel,  and  running  with  aston- 
ishing speed. 

'Tis  he!  "  she  said  to  herself. 

The  Gars,  dressed  plainly  like  a  Chouan,  carried  his 
blunderbuss  slung  behind  his  goatskin,  and,  but  for  the 
elegance  of  his  movements,  would  have  been  unrecog- 
nizable. Marie  retired  hurriedly  into  the  cabin,  in  obe- 
dience to  one  of  those  instinctive  resolves  which  are  as 
little  explicable  as  fear.  But  it  was  not  long  before  the 
young  chief  stood  only  a  step  from  her,  in  front  of  the 
chimney,  where  burned  a  clear  and  crackling  fire.  Both 
found  themselves  speechless,  and  dreaded  to  look  at  each 


A   DAY   WITHOUT  A   MORROW. 


36 


other,  or  even  to  move.      /  /    ; 
One  hope  united  their   .'  /' 
thoughts,    one   doubt    i 
parted  them.      It  was    J7~-~--- 
anguish   and    rapture     "7 
at  once. 

"Sir!  "  said  Mile,  de      •_<,__ 
Verneuil  at  last,  in  a 


broken  voice,  "anxiety  for  your  safety  alone  has  brought 
me  hither." 

"My  safety?"  he  asked  bitterly. 

"Yes!  "  she  answered.  "So  long  as  I  stay  at  Fougeres 
your  life  is  in  danger;  and  I  love  you  too  well  not  to 
depart  this  evening.  Therefore  seek  me  no  more." 


362  THE    CHOUANS. 

"Depart,  beloved  angel?     I  will  follow  you!" 

"Follow  me?  Can  you  think  of  such  a  thing?  And 
the  Blues?" 

"Why,  dearest  Marie,  what  have  the  Blues  to  do  with 
our  love?" 

"It  seems  to  me  difficult  for  you  to  stay  in  France  near 
me,  and  more  difficult  still  for  you  to  leave  it  with  me." 

"Is  there  such  a  thing  as  the  impossible  to  a  good 
lover? " 

"Yes!  I  believe  that  everything  is  possible.  Had  / 
not  courage  enough  to  give  you  up  for  your  own  sake?" 

"What!  You  gave  yourself  to  a  horrible  creature 
whom  you  did  not  love,  and  you  will  not  grant  happi- 
ness to  a  man  who  adores  you,  whose  whole  life  you  fill, 
who  swears  to  you  to  be  forever  only  yours?  Listen, 
Marie:  do  you  love  me?" 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"Well,  then,  be  mine!  " 

"Have  you  forgotten  that  I  have  resumed  the  base  part 
of  a  courtesan,  and  that  it  is  you  who  must  be  mine?  If 
I  have  determined  to  fly,  it  is  that  I  may  not  let  the  con- 
tempt which  I  may  incur  fall  on  your  head.  Were  it 
not  for  this  fear  I  might — 

"But  if  I  fear  nothing?" 

"Who  will  guarantee  me  that?  I  am  mistrustful; 
and  in  my  situation,  who  would  not  be  so?  If  the  love 
that  \ve  inspire  be  not  lasting,  at  least  it  should  be  com- 
plete, so  as  to  make  us  support  the  world's  injustice  with 
joy.  What  have  you  done  for  me?  You  desire  me.  Do 
you  think  that  exalts  you.  very  high  above  those  who  have 
seen  me  before?  Have  you  risked  your  Chouans  for  an 
hour  of  rapture  as  carelessly  as  I  dismissed  the  remem- 
brance of  the  massacred  Blues  when  all  was  lost  for  me? 
Suppose  I  bade  you  renounce  all  your  principles,  all 


A   DAY   WITHOUT  A    MORROW.  363 

your  hopes,  your  king  who  stands  in  my  way,  and  who 
very  likely  will  make  mock  of  you  when  you  have  laid 
down  your  life  for  him,  while  I  would  die  for  you  with 
a  sacred  devotion?  Suppose  I  would  have  you  send 
your  submission  to  the  First  Consul,  so  that  you  might 
he  able  to  follow  me  to  Paris?  Suppose  I  insisted  that 
we  should  go  to  America  to  live,  far  from  a  world  where 
all  is  vanity,  that  I  might  know  whether  you  really  love 
me  for  myself  as  at  this  moment  I  love  you?  In  one 
word,  suppose  I  tried  to  make  you  fall  to  my  level 
instead  of  raising  myself  to  yours,  what  would  you  do?" 

"Hush,  Marie!  Do  not  slander  yourself.  Poor  child, 
I  have  found  you  out.  Even  as  my  first  desire  trans- 
formed itself  into  passion,  so  my  passion  has  transformed 
itself  into  love.  I  know,  dearest  soul  of  my  soul,  that 
you  are  noble  as  your  name,  great  as  you  are  beautiful. 
And  I  myself  am  noble  enough  and  feel  myself  great 
enough  to  force  the  world  to  receive  ycu.  Is  it  because 
I  foresee  unheard-of  and  incessant  delights  with  you?  Is 
it  because  I  seem  to  recognize  in  your  soul  that  precious 
quality  which  keeps  us  ever  constant  to  one  woman? 
I  know  not  the  cause;  but  my  love  is  boundless,  and  I 
feel  that  I  cannot  live  without  you — that  my  life,  if  you 
were  not  near  me,  would  be  full  of  mere  disgust." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'near  me?'" 

"Oh,  Marie!    will  you  not  understand  your  Alphonse?" 

"Ah!  you  think  you  are  paying  me  a  great  compliment 
in  offering  me  your  hand  and  name?"  she  said,  with 
affected  scorn,  but  eying  the  marquis  closely  to  catch 
his  slightest  thoughts.  "How  do  you  know  whether  you 
would  love  me  in  six  months'  time?  And  if  you  did 
not,  what  would  become  of  me?  No,  no  !  a  mistress  is 
the  only  woman  who  is  certain  of  the  affection  which  a 
man  shows  her;  she  has  no  need  to  seek  such  pitiful 


364  THE    CHOUANS. 

allies  as  duty,  law,  society,  the  interests  of  children; 
and  if  her  power  lasts,  she  finds  in  it  solace  and  happi- 
ness which  make  the  greatest  vexations  of  life  endurable. 
To  be  your  wife,  at  the  risk  of  one  day  being  a  burden 
to  you?  To  such  a  fear  I  would  prefer  a  love  fleeting, 
but  true  while  it  lasted,  though  death  and  ruin  were  to 
come  after  it.  Yes!  I  could  well,  and  even  better  than 
another,  be  a  virtuous  mother,  a  devoted  wife.  But,  in 
order  that  such  sentiments  may  be  kept  up  in  a  woman's 
heart,  a  man  must  not  marry  her  in  a  mere  gust  of  pas- 
sion. Besides,  can  I  tell  myself  whether  I  shall  care 
for  you  to-morrow?  No!  I  will  not  bring  a  curse  on 
you;  I  will  leave  Brittany,"  said  she,  perceiving  an  air 
of  irresolution  in  his  looks.  "I  will  return  to  Paris,  and 
you  will  not  come  to  seek  me  there — 

"Well,  then!  the  day  after  to-morrow,  if  in  the  morn- 
ing you  see  smoke  on  the  rocks  of  Saint  Sulpice,  that 
evening  I  shall  be  at  your  house  as  lover,  as  husband, 
whichever  you  will.  I  shall  have  put  all  to  the  touch!" 

"Then,  Alphonse,  you  really  love  me,"  she  cried  with 
transport,  "that  you  risk  your  life  thus  before  you  give 
it  to  me?" 

He  answered  not,  but  looked  at  her.  Her  eyes  fell; 
but  he  read  on  the  passionate  countenance  of  his  mis- 
tress a  madness  equal  to  his  own,  and  he  held  out  his 
arms  to  her.  A  kind  of  frenzy  seized  Marie.  She  was  on 
the  point  of  falling  in  languishment  on  the  marquis' 
breast,  with  a  mind  made  up  to  complete  surrender,  so 
as  out  of  this  fault  to  forge  the  greatest  of  blessings, 
and  to  stake  her  whole  future,  which,  if  she  came  out 
conqueror  from  this  last  test,  she  would  make  more  than 
ever  certain.  But  her  head  had  scarcely  rested  on  her 
lover's  shoulder,  when  a  slight  noise  was  heard  outside. 
She  tore  herself  from  his  arms  as  if  suddenly  waked 


A   DAY   WITHOUT  A   MORROW.  365 

from  sleep,  and  darted  from  the  cabin.      Only  then  could 
she  recover  a  little  coolness  and  think  of  her  position. 

"Perhaps  he  would  have  taken  me  and  laughed  at  me 
afterwards!  "  thought  she.  "Could  I  believe  that,  I 
would  kill  him!  But  not  yet!"  she  went  on,  as  she 
caught  sight  of  Beau-Pied,  to  whom  she  made  a  sign, 
wnich  the  soldier  perfectly  well  understood. 

The  poor  fellow  turned  on  his  heel,  pretending  to  have 
seen  nothing,  and  Mile,  de  Verneuil  suddenly  reentered 
the  room,  begging  the  young  chief  to  observe  the  deep- 
est silence  by  pressing  the  first  finger  of  her  right  hand 
on  her  lips. 

"They  are  there!  "  she  said,  in  a  stifled  voice  of  terror. 

"Who?" 

"The  Blues!" 

"Ah!    I  will  not  die  at  least  without  having — 

"Yes,  take  it — 

He  seized  her  cold  and  unresisting  form,  and  gathered 
from  her  lips  a  kiss  full  both  of  horror  and  delight,  for 
it  might  well  be  at  once  the  first  and  the  last.  Then 
they  went  together  to  the  door-step,  putting  their  heads 
in  such  a  posture  as  to  see  all  without  being  seen.  The 
marquis  perceived  Gudin  at  the  head  of  a  dozen  men, 
holding  the  foot  of  the  Couesnon  Valley.  He  turned 
towards  the  series  of  tchaliers,  but  the  great  rotten  tree- 
trunk  was  guarded  by  seven  soldiers.  He  climbed  the 
cider-butt,  and  drove  out  the  shingled  roof  so  as  to  be 
able  to  jump  on  the  knoll;  but  he  quickly  drew  his  head 
back  from  the  hole  he  had  made,  for  Hulot  was  on  the 
heights,  cutting  off  the  road  to  Fougeres.  Fora  moment 
he  stared  at  his  mistress,  who  uttered  a  cry  of  despair  as 
she  heard  the  tramp  of  the  three  detachments  all  round 
the  house. 

"Go  out  first,"  he  said;   "you  will   save  me." 


366 


THE    CHOUANS. 


As  she  heard  these  words,  to  her  sub!  ime,  she  placed 
herself,  full  of  happiness,  in  front  of  the  door,  while  the 
marquis  cocked  his  blunderbuss.  After  carefully  calcu- 
lating the  distance  between  the  cottage  door  and  the  great 
tree-trunk,  the  Gars  flung  himself  upon  the  seven  Blues, 
sent  a  hail  of  slugs  upon  them  from  his  piece,  and  forced 

his  way  through  their  midst. 
The  three  parties  hurried  down 
to  the  barrier  which  the  chief 


/ 


had  leaped,  and  saw  him  running 
across  the  field  with  incredible 
speed. 

"Fire!    fire!      A   thousand    devils!     are    you 
Frenchmen?     Fire,    dogs!  "  cried    Hulot    in    a 
voice  of  thunder. 

As  he  shouted  these  words  from  the  top  of  the  knoll, 
his  men  and  Gudin's  delivered  a  general  volley,  luckily 
ill-aimed.  The  marquis  had  already  reached  the  barrier 
at  the  end  of  the  first  field  ;  but  just  as  he  passed  into 
the  second  he  WHS  nearly  caught  by  Gudin,  who  had 
rushed  furiously  after  him.  Hearing  this  formidable 
enemy  a  few  steps  behind,  the  Gars  redoubled  his  speed. 
Nevertheless,  Gudin  and  he  reached  the  bar  almost  at 


A    DAY   WITHOUT   A    MORROW.  367 

the  same  moment;  but  Montauran  hurled  his  blunder- 
buss with  such  address  at  Gudin's  head,  that  he  hit  him 
and  stopped  his  career  for  a  moment.  It  is  impossible  to 
depict  the  anxiety  of  Marie,  or  the  interest  which  Hulot 
and  his  men  showed  at  this  spectacle.  All  unconsciously 
mimicked  the  gestures  of  the  two  runners.  The  Gars 
and  Gudin  had  reached,  almost  together,  the  curtain, 
whitened  with  hoar-frost,  which  the  little  wood  formed, 
when  suddenly  the  Republican  officer  started  back  and 
sheltered  himself  behind  an  apple-tree.  A  score  of 
Chouans,  who  had  not  fired  before  for  fear  of  killing  their 
chief,  now  showed  themselves,  and  riddled  the  tree  with 
bullets.  Then  all  Hulot' s  little  force  set  off  at  a  run  to 
rescue  Gudin,  who,  finding  himself  weaponless,  retired 
from  apple-tree  to  apple-tree,  taking  for  his  runs  the 
intervals  when  the  King's  Huntsmen  were  reloading. 
His  danger  did  not  last  long,  for  the  counter-Chouans 
and  Blues,  Hulot  at  their  head,  came  up  to  support  the 
young  officer  at  the  spot  where  the  marquis  had  thrown 
away  his  blunderbuss.  Just  then  Gudin  saw  his  foe  sit- 
ting exhausted  under  one  of  the  trees  of  the  clump,  and, 
leaving  his  comrades  to  exchange  shots  with  the  Chouans, 
who  were  ensconced  behind  the  hedge  at  the  side  of  the 
field,  he  outflanked  these,  and  made  for  the  marquis 
with  the  eagerness  of  a  wild  beast.  When  they  saw  this 
movement,  the  King's  Huntsmen  uttered  hideous  yells 
to  warn  their  chief,  and  then,  having  fired  on  the 
counter-Chouans  with  poachers'  luck,  they  tried  to  hold 
their  ground  against  them.  But  the  Blues  valiantly 
stormed  the  hedge  which  formed  the  enemy's  rampart, 
and  exacted  a  bloody  vengeance.  Then  the  Chouans 
took  to  the  road  bordering  the  field  in  the  inclosure  of 
which  this  scene  had  passed,  and  seized  the  heights 
which  Hulot  had  made  the  mistake  of  abandoning. 


368  THE    CHOUANS. 

Before  the  Blues  had  had  time  to  collect  their  ideas,  the 
Chouans  had  intrenched  themselves  in  the  broken  crests 
of  the  rocks,  under  cover  of  which  they  could,  without 
exposing  themselves,  fire  on  Hulot's  men  if  these  latter 
showed  signs  of  coming  to  attack  them.  While  the  com- 
mandant with  some  soldiers  went  slowly  towards  the  little 
wood  to  look  for  Gudin,  the  Fougerese  staid  behind  to 
strip  the  dead  Chouans  and  dispatch  the  living — for  in 
this  hideous  war  neither  party  made  prisoners.  The  mar- 
quis once  in  safety,  Chouans  and  Blues  alike  recognized 
the  strength  of  their  respective  positions  and  the  useless- 
ness  of  continuing  the  strife.  Both  therefore  thought 
only  of  withdrawing. 

"If  I  lose  this  young  fellow,"  cried  Hulot,  scanning 
the  wood  carefully,  "I  will  never  make  another  friend." 

"Ah!  "  said  one  of  the  young  men  of  Fougeres,  who  was 
busy  stripping  the  dead,  "here  is  a  bird  with  yellow 
feathers !" 

And  he  showed  his  comrades  a  purse  full  of  gold-pieces, 
which  he  had  just  found  in  the  pocket  of  a  stout  man 
dressed  in  black. 

"But  what  have  we  here?"  said  another,  drawing  a 
breviary  from  the  dead  man's  overcoat.  "Why,  'tis  holy 
ware!  He  is  a  priest!"  cried  he,  throwing  the  volume 
down. 

"This  thief  has  turned  bankrupt  on  our  hands!  "  said  a 
third,  finding  only  two  crowns  of  six  francs  in  the  pock- 
ets of  a  Chouan  whom  he  was  stripping. 

"Yes;  but  he  has  a  capital  pair  of  shoes,"  answered  a 
soldier,  making  as  though  to  take  them. 

"You  shall  have  them  if  they  fall  to  your  share," 
replied  one  of  the  Fougerese,  plucking  them  from  the 
dead  man's  feet,  and  throwing  them  on  the  pile  of  goods 
already  heaped  together. 


A    DAY    WITHOUT   A    MORROW.  369 

A  fourth  counter-Chouan  acted  as  receiver  of  the  coin, 
with  a  view  to  sharing  it  out  when  all  the  men  of  the 
expedition  had  come  together.  When  Hulot  came  back 
with  the  young  officer,  whose  last  attempt  to  come  up 
with  the  Gars  had  been  equally  dangerous  and  'futile,  he 
found  a  score  of  his  soldiers  and  some  thirty  counter- 
Chouans  standing  round  eleven  dead  enemies,  whose 
bodies  had  been  thrown  into  a  furrow  drawn  along  the 
foot  of  the  hedge. 

"Soldiers!  "  cried  the  commandant  in  a  stern  voice,  "I 
forbid  you  to  share  these  rags.  Fall  in,  and  that  in  less 
than  no  time!  " 

"Commandant,"  said  a  soldier  to  Hulot,  pointing  to 
his  own  shoes,  at  whose  tips  his  five  bare  toes  were  visi- 
ble, "all  right  about  the  money;  but  those  shoes,  com- 
mandant?" added  he,  indicating  with  his  musket-butt  the 
pair  of  hobnails,  "those  shoes  would  fit  me  like  a  glove." 

"So,  you  want  English  shoes  on  your  feet?"  answered 
Hulot. 

"But,"  said  one  of  the  Fougerese,  respectfully  enough, 
"we  have  always,  since  the  war  begun,  shared  the  booty." 

"I  do  not  interfere  with  you  other  fellows, "  said  Hulot, 
interrupting  him  roughly;  "follow  your  customs." 

"Here,  Gudin,  here  is  a  purse  which  is  not  badly 
stocked  with  louis.  You  have  had  hard  work;  your  chief 
will  not  mind  your  taking  it,"  said  one  of  his  old  com- 
rades to  the  young  officer. 

Hulot  looked  askance  at  Gudin,  and  saw  his  face  grow 
pale. 

'Tis  my  uncle's  purse,"  cried  the  young  man;  and, 
dead  tired  as  he  was,  he  walked  towards  the  heap  of 
corpses.  The  first  that  met  his  eyes  was  in  fact  his 
uncle's;  but  he  had  hardly  caught  sight  of  the  ruddy 
face  furrowed  with  bluish  streaks,  the  stiffened  arms, 
24 


37°  THE    CHOUANS. 

and  the  wound  which  the  gunshot  had  made,  than  he 
uttered  a  stifled  cry,  and  said,  "Let  us  march,  comman- 
dant! " 

The  troop  of  Blues  set  off,  Hulot  lending  his  arm  to 
support  his  young  friend. 

"God's  thunder!  you  will  get  over  that,"  said  the  old 
soldier. 

"But  he  is  dead  !"  replied  Gudin.  "Dead!  He  was  my 
only  relation;  and  though  he  cursed  me,  he  loved  me. 
Had  the  King  come  back,  the  whole  country  might  have 
clamored  for  my  head,  but  the  old  boy  would  have  hid 
me  under  his  cassock." 

"The  foolish  fellow!"  said  the  National  Guards  who 
had  staid  behind  to  share  the  spoils.  "The  old  boy  was 
rich;  and  things  being  so,  he  could  not  have  had  time  to 
make  a  will  to  cut  Gudin  off."  And  when  the  division 
was  made  the  counter-Chouans  caught  up  the  little  force 
of  Blues  and  followed  it  at  some  interval. 

As  night  fell,  terrible  anxiety  came  upon  Galope- 
Chopine's  hut,  where  hitherto  life  had  passed  in  the 
most  careless  simplicity.  Barbette  and  her  little  boy, 
carrying  on  their  backs,  the  one  a  heavy  load  of  ajoncs, 
the  other  a  supply  of  grass  for  the  cattle,  returned  at  the 
usual  hour  of  the  family  evening  meal.  When  they 
entered  the  house,  mother  and  son  looked  in  vain  for 
Galope-Chopine;  and  never  had  the  wretched  chamber 
seemed  to  them  so  large  as  now  in  its  emptiness.  The 
fireless  hearth,  the  darkness,  the  silence,  all  gave  them 
a  foreboding  of  misfortune.  When  night  came,  Barbette 
busied  herself  in  lighting  a  bright  fire  and  two  oribus — 
the  name  given  to  candles  of  resin  in  the  district  from 
the  shores  of  Armorica  to  the  Upper  Loire,  and  still  used 
in  the  Vendome  country  districts  this  side  of  Amboise. 
She  went  through  these  preparations  with  the  slowness 


A   DAY  WITHOUT   A   MORROW.  371 

naturally  affecting  action  when  it  is  dominated  by  some 
deep  feeling.  She  listened  for  the  smallest  noise;  but 
though  often  deceived  by  the  whistling  squalls  of  wind, 
she  always  returned  sadly  from  her  journeys  to  the  door 
of  her  wretched  hut.  She  cleaned  two  pitchers,  filled 
them  with  cider,  and  set  them  on  the  long  walnut* 
table.  Again  and  again  she  gazed  at  the  boy,  who  was 
watching  the  baking  of  the  buckwheat  cakes,  but  with- 
out being  able  to  speak  to  him.  For  a  moment  the  little 
boy's  eyes  rested  on  the  two  nails  which  served  as  sup- 
ports to  his  father's  duck-gun,  and  Barbette  shuddered 
as  they  both  saw  that  the  place  was  empty.  The  silence 
was  broken  only  by  the  lowing  of  the  cows  or  by  the 
steady  drip  of  the  cider  drops  from  the  cask-spile.  The 
poor  woman  sighed  as  she  got  ready  in  three  platters  of 
brown  earthenware  a  sort  of  soup  composed  of  milk, 
cakes  cut  up  small,  and  boiled  chestnuts. 

"They  fought  in  the  field  that  belongs  to  the  Berau- 
diere, "  said  the  little  boy. 

"Go  and  look  there,"  answered  his  mother. 

The  boy  ran  thither,  perceived  by  the  moonlight  the 
heap  of  dead,  found  that  his  father  was  not  amongst 
them,  and  came  back  whistling  cheerfully,  for  he  had 
picked  up  some  five-franc  pieces  which  had  been  trodden 
under  foot  by  the  victors,  and  forgotten  in  the  mud.  He 
found  his  mother  sitting  on  a  stool  at  the  fireside,  and 
busy  spinning  hemp.  He  shook  his  head  to  Barbette, 
who  hardly  dared  believe  in  any  good  news;  and  then, 
ten  o'clock  having  struck  from  Saint  Leonard's,  the 
child  went  to  bed,  after  muttering  a  prayer  to  the  Holy 
Virgin  of  Auray.  At  daybreak,  Barbette,  who  had  not 


*  The  table  and  bench  (see  below)  have  been  previously  described  as  of  chestnut . 
It  is  fair  to  say  that  noyer,  though  specifically  =  "walnut,"  is  etymologically  any  nut 
tree  —Translator's  Note. 


372  THE    CHOUANS. 

slept,  uttered  a  cry  of  joy  as  she  heard,  echoing  afar  off, 
a  sound  of  heavy  hobnailed  shoes  which  she  knew  ;  and 
soon  Galope-Chopine  showed  his  sullen  face. 

"Thanks  to  Saint  Labre,  to  whom  I  have  promised  a 
fine  candle,  the  Gars  is  safe1  Do  not  forget  that  we  owe 
the  saint  three  candles  now. " 

Then  Galope-Chopine  seized  a  pitcher  and  drained  the 
whole  of  its  contents  without  drawing  breath.  When  1m 
wife  had  served  up  his  soup  and  had  relieved  him  of  his 
duck-gun,  and  when  he  had  sat  down  on  the  walnut  bench, 
he  said,  drawing  closer  to  the  fire: 

"How  did  the  Blues  and  the  counter-Chouans  get  here? 
The  fighting  was  at  Florigny.  What  devil  can  have  told 
them  that  the  Gars  was  at  our  house?  for  nobody  but 
himself,  his  fair  wench,  and  ourselves  knew  it." 

The  woman  grew  pale.  "The  counter-Chouans  per- 
suaded me  that  they  were  gars  of  Saint  George,"  said 
she,  trembling;  "and  it  was  I  who  told  them  where  the 
Gars  was. " 

Galope-Chopine' s  face  blanched  in  his  turn,  and  he 
left  his  plate  on  the  table-edge. 

"I  sent  the  child  to  tell  you,"  went  on  Barbette  in  her 
terror;  "but  he  did  not  meet  you." 

The  Chouan  rose  and  struck  his  wife  so  fierce  a  blow 
that  she  fell  half  dead  on  the  bed.  "Accursed  wench," 
he  said,  "you  have  killed  me!"  Then,  seized  with  fear, 
he  caught  his  wife  in  his  arms.  "Barbette!"  he  cried; 
"Uarhette!  Holy  Virgin!  my  hand  was  too  heavy!" 

"Do  you  think,"  she  said,  opening  her  eyes,  "that 
Marche-a-Terre  will  come  to  know  of  it?" 

"The  Gars,"  answered  the  Chouan,  "has  given  orders 
to  inquire  whence  the  treachery  came." 

"I'ut  did  he  tell  Marche-a-Terre?" 
Tille-Miche  and  Marche-a-Terre  were  at  Florigny." 


A    DAY   WITHOUT   A    MORROW.  373 

Barbette  breathed  more  freely.  "If  they  touch  a  hair 
of  your  head,"  said  she,  "I  will  rinse  their  glasses  with 
vinegar !". 

"Ah!  my  appetite  is  gone! "  cried  Galope-Chopine 
sadly.  His  wife  pushed  another  full  jug  in  front  of  him, 
but  he  did  not  even  notice  it ;  and  two  great  tears  fur- 
rowed Barbette's  cheek,  moistening  the  wrinkles  of  her 
withered  face. 

"Listen,  wife:  You  must  pile  some  fagots  to-morrow 
morning  on  the  Saint  Sulpice  rocks,  to  the  right  of  Saint 
Leonard's,  and  set  fire  to  them.  'Tis  the  signal  arranged 
between  the  Gars  and  the  old  rector  of  Saint  George, 
who  is  coming  to  say  mass  for  him." 

"Is  he  going  to  Fougeres,  then?" 

"Yes,  to  his  fair  wench.  I  have  got  some  running 
about  to  do  to-day  by  reason  of  it.  I  think  he  is  going 
to  marry  her  and  carry  her  off,  for  he  bade  me  go  and 
hire  horses  and  relay  them  on  the  Saint  Malo  road. " 

Thereupon  the  weary  Galope-Chopine  went  to  bed  for 
some  hours;  and  then  he  set  about  his  errands.  The 
next  morning  he  came  home,  after  having  punctually  dis- 
charged the  commissions  with  which  the  marquis  had 
entrusted  him.  When  he  learned  that  Marche-a-Terre 
and  Pille-Miche  had  not  appeared,  he  quieted  the  fears  of 
his  wife,  who  set  out,  almost  reassured,  for  the  rocks  of 
Saint  Sulpice,  where  the  day  before  she  had  prepared,  on 
the  hummock  facing  Saint  Leonard's,  some  fagots  cov- 
ered with  hoar-frost.  She  led  by  the  hand  her  little  boy, 
who  carried  some  fire  in  a  broken  sabot.  Hardly  had  his 
wife  and  child  disappeared  round  the  roof  of  the  shed, 
when  Galope-Chopine  heard  two  men  leaping  over  the 
last  of  the  series  of  barriers,  and  little  by  little  he  saw, 
through  a  fog  which  was  pretty  thick,  angular  shapes, 
looking  like  uncertain  shadows. 


374  THE  CHOUANS, 

'Tis  Pille-Miche  and  Marche-a-Terre!"  he  said  to 
himself  with  a  start.  The  two  Chouans,  who  had  now 
reached  the  little  court-yard,  showed  their  dark  faces, 
resembling,  under  their  great,  shabby  hats,  the  figures  that 
engravers  put  into  landscapes. 

"Good  day,  Galope-Chopine !"  said  Marche-a-Terre 
gravely. 

"Good  day,  Master  Marche-a-Terre,"  humbly  replied 
Barbette's  husband.  "Will  you  come  in  and  drink  a 
pitcher  or  two?  There  is  cold  cake  and  fresh-made 
batter. " 

"We  shall  not  refuse,  cousin,"  said  Pille-Miche;  and 
the  two  Chouans  entered. 

This  overture  had  nothing  in  it  alarming  to  Galope- 
Chopine,  who  bustled  about  to  fill  three  pitchers  at  his 
great  cask,  while  Pille-Miche  and  Marche-a-Terre,  seated 
at  each  side  of  the  long  table  on  the  glistening  benches, 
cut  the  bannocks  for  themselves,  and  spread  them  with 
luscious  yellow  butter,  which  shed  little  bubbles  of  milk 
under  the  knife.  Galope-Chopine  set  the  foam-crowned 
pitchers  full  of  cider  before  his  guests,  and  the  three 
Chouans  began  to  eat;  but  from  time  to  time  the  host 
cast  sidelong  glances  on  Marche-a-Terre,  eager  to  satisfy 
his  thirst. 

"Give  me  your  snuff-box,"  said  Marche-a-Terre  to 
Pille-Miche;  and  after  sharply  shaking  several  pinches 
into  the  hollow  of  his  hand,  the  Breton  took  his  tobacco 
like  a  man  who  wished  to  wind  himself  up  for  some  seri- 
ous business. 

'Tis  cold,"  said  Pille-Miche,  rising  to  go  and  shut 
the  upper  part  of  the  door. 

The  daylight,  darkened  by  the  fog,  had  no  further 
access  to  the  room  than  by  the  little  window,  and  lighted 
but  feebly  the  table  and  the  two  benches;  but  the  fire 


A   DAY  WITHOUT  A   MORROW.  375 

shed  its  ruddy  glow  over  them.  At  the  same  moment, 
Galope-Chopine,  who  had  finished  filling  his  guests'  jugs 
a  second  time,  set  these  before  them.  But  they  refused 
to  drink,  threw  down  their  flapping  hats,  and  suddenly 
assumed  a  solemn  air.  Their  gestures  and  the  inquiring 
looks  they  cast  at  one  another  made  Galcpe-Chopine 
shudder,  and  the  red  woolen  caps  which  were  on  their 
heads  seemed  to  him  as  though  they  were  blood. 

"Bring  us  your  hatchet,"  said  Marche-a-Terre. 

"But,  Master  Marche-a-Terre,  what  do  you  want  it 
for?" 

"Come,  cousin,"  said  Pille-Miche,  putting  up  the 
mull  which  Marche-a-Terre  handed  to  him,  "you  know 
well  enough — you  are  sentenced."  And  the  two  Chouans 
rose  together,  clutching  their  rifles. 

"Master  Marche-a-Terre,  I  have  not  said  a  word  about 
the  Gars — 

"I  tell  you  to  fetch  your  hatchet,"  answered  the 
Chouan. 

The  wretched  Galope-Chopine  stumbled  against  the 
rough  wood-work  of  his  child's  bed,  and  three  five-franc 
pieces  fell  on  the  floor.  Pille-Miche  picked  them  up. 

"Aha!  the  Blues  have  given  you  new  coin,"  cried 
Marche-a-Terre. 

'Tis  as  true  as  that  Saint  Labre's  image  is  there," 
replied  Galope-Chopine,  "that  I  said  nothing.  Barbette 
mistook  the  counter-Chouans  for  the  gars  of  Saint 
George's;  that  is  all." 

"Why  do  you  talk  about  business  to  your  wife?" 
answered  Marche-a-Terre  savagely. 

"Besides,  cousin,  we  are  not  asking  for  explanations, 
but  for  your  hatchet.  You  are  sentenced."  And  at  a 
sign  from  his  comrade,  Pille-Miche  helped  him  to  seize 
the  victim.  When  he  found  himself  in  the  two  Chouans' 


376  THE    CHOUANS. 

grasp,  Galope-Chopine  lost  all  his  fortitude,  fell  on  his 
knees,  and  raised  despairing  hands  towards  his  two  exe- 
cutioners. 

"My  good  friends!  my  cousin!  what  is  to  become  of 
my  little  boy?" 

"I  will  take  care  of  him,"  said  Marche-a-Terre. 

"Dear  comrades,"  said  Galope-Chopine,  whose  face 
had  become  of  a  ghastly  whiteness,  "I  am  not  ready  to 
die.  Will  you  let  me  depart  without  confessing?  You 
have  the  right  to  take  my  life,  but  not  to  make  me  for- 
feit eternal  happiness." 

'Tis  true!"  said  Marche-a-Terre,  looking  at  Pille- 
Miche;  and  the  two  Chouans  remained  for  a  moment  in 
the  greatest  perplexity,  unable  to  decide  this  case  of  con- 
science. Galope-Chopine  listened  for  the  least  rustle 
that  the  wind  made,  as  if  he  still  kept  up  some  hope. 
The  sound  of  the  cider  dripping  regularly  from  the  cask 
made  him  cast  a  mechanical  look  at  the  barrel  and  give 
a  melancholy  sigh.  Suddenly  Pille-Miche  took  his 
victim  by  the  arm,  drew  him  into  the  corner,  and  said: 

"Confess  all  your  sins  to  me.  I  will  tell  them  over  to 
a  priest  of  the  true  church;  he  shall  give  me  absolution; 
and  if  there  be  penance  to  do,  I  will  do  it  for  you." 

Galope-Chopine  obtained  some  respite  by  his  manner 
of  acknowledging  his  transgressions;  but  despite  the 
length  and  details  of  the  crimes,  he  came  at  last  to  the 
end  of  the  list. 

"Alas!"  said  he  in  conclusion,  "after  all,  cousin,  since 
I  am  addressing  you  as  a  confessor,  I  protest  to  you  by 
the  holy  name  of  God  that  I  have  nothing  to  reproach 
myself  with,  except  having  buttered  my  bread  too  much 
here  and  there;  and  I  call  Saint  Labre,  who  is  over 
the  chimney,  to  witness  that  I  said  nothing  about  the 
Gars.  No.  mv  good  friends,  I  am  no  traitor!" 


A    DAY   WITHOUT   A    MORROW.  377 

"Go  to,  cousin;  'tis  well!  Get  up:  you  can  arrange 
all  that  with  the  good  God  at  one  time  or  another." 

"But  let  me  say  one  little  good-bye  to  Barbe — 

"Come,"  answered  Marche-a-Terre,  "if  you  wish  us 
not  to  think  worse  of  you  than  is  needful,  behave  like  a 
Breton,  and  make  a  clean  end!" 

The  two  Chouans  once  more  seized  Galope-Chopine 
and  stretched  him  on  the  bench,  where  he  gave  no  other 
sign  of  resistance  than  the  convulsive  movements  of 
mere  animal  instinct.  At  the  last  he  uttered  some  smoth- 
ered shrieks,  which  ceased  at  the  moment  that  the  heavy 
thud  of  the  axe  was  heard.  The  head  was  severed  at  a 
single  blow.  Marche-a-Terre  took  it  by  a  tuft  of  hair, 
left  the  room,  and,  after  searching,  found  a  stout  nail  in 
the  clumsy  frame-work  of  the  door,  round  which  he 
twisted  the  hair  he  held,  and  left  the  bloody  head  hang- 
ing there,  without  even  closing  the  eyes.  Then  the  two 
Chouans  washed  their  hands  without  the  least  hurry  in 
a  great  pan  full  of  water,  took  up  their  hats  and  their 
rifles,  and  clambered  over  the  barrier,  whistling  the  air 
of  the  ballad  of  The  Captain*  At  the  end  of  the  field 
Pille-Miche  shouted  in  a  husky  voice  some  stanzas  chosen 
by  chance  from  this  simple  song,  the  rustic  strains  of 
which  were  carried  afar  off  by  the  wind: 

"At  the  first  town  where  they  did  alight, 
Her  lover  dressed  her  in  satin  white. 

At  the  second  town,  her  lover  bold 

He  dressed  her  in  silver  and  eke  in  gold. 

So  fair  she  was  that  their  stuff  they  lent 
To  do  her  grace  through  the  regiment." 


*This  famous  folk-song  has  been  Englished  by  Mr.  Swinburne  in  "May  Janet,'1 
and  I  think  by  others.  It  might  have  been  wiser  to  borrow  a  version  from  one  of 
these.  But  silk  on  homespun  is  bad  heraldry.  The  following  is  at  any  rate  pretty 
close,  and  in  verse  suiting  its  neighbor  prose.  If  the  third  stanza  does  not  seem 
clear,  I  can  only  say  that  no  one  can  be  very  sure  what  On  iui  tcnda.it  les  voiles  Dans 
tout  le  regiment  does  mean. —  Translator's  Note. 


378  THE    CHOUANS. 

The  tune  grew  slowly  indistinct  as  the  two  Chouans 
retired ;  but  the  silence  of  the  country  was  so  deep  that 
some  notes  reached  the  ear  of  Barbette,  who  was  coming 
home,  her  child  in  her  hand.  So  popular  is  this  song  in 
the  west  of  France,  that  a  peasant  woman  never  hears 
it  unmoved;  and  thus  Barbette  unconsciously  struck  up 
the  first  verses  of  the  ballad: 

"Come  to  the  war,  come,  fairest  May; 
Come,  for  we  must  no  longer  stay. 

"Captain  brave,  take  thou  no  care, 
Not  for  thee  is  my  daughter  fair. 

"Neither  on  land,  nor  yet  on  sea; 
Shall  aught  but  treason  give  her  to  thee, 

"The  father  strips  his  girl,  and  he 
Takes  her  and  flings  her  into  the  sea. 

"But  wiser,  I  trow,  was  the  captain  stout; 
He  swims,  and  fetches  his  lady  out. 

"Come  to  the  war,  etc." 

At  the  same  moment  at  which  Barbette  found  herself 
catching  up  the  ballad  at  the  point  where  Pille-Miche 
had  begun  it,  she  reached  her  own  court-yard;  her  tongue 
froze  to  her  mouth,  she  stood  motionless,  and  a  loud 
shriek,  suddenly  checked,  issued  from  her  gaping  lips. 

"What  is  the  matter,  dear  mother?"  asked  the  child. 

"Go  by  yourself,"  muttered  Barbette,  drawing  her  hand 
from  his,  and  pushing  him  forward  with  strange  rough- 
ness. "You  are  fatherless  and  motherless  now!" 

The  child  rubbed  his  shoulder  as  he  cried,  saw  the 
head  nailed  on  the  door,  and  his  innocent  countenance 
speechlessly  kept  the  nervous  twitch  which  tears  give  to 
the  features.  He  opened  his  eyes  wide  and  gazed  long 
at  his  father's  head,  with  a  stolid  and  passionless  expres- 
sion, till  his  face,  brutalized  by  ignorance,  changed  to 
the  exhibition  of  a  kind  of  savage  curiosity.  Suddenly 
Barbette  caught  her  child's  hand  once  more,  squeezed  it 
fiercely,  and  drew  him  with  rapid  steps  towards  the 


A   DAY   WITHOUT   A    MORROW. 


379 


house.  As  Pille-Miche  and  Marche-a-Terre  were  stretch- 
ing Galope-Chopine  on  the  bench,  one  of  his  shoes  had 
fallen  off  under  his  neck  in  such  a  fashion  that  it  was 
filled  with  his  blood;  and  this  was  the  first  object  that  the 
widow  saw. 

"Take  your  sabot  off ! "  said  the  mother  to  the  son. 
"Put  your  foot  in  there.  'Tis  well!  And  now,"  said 
she  in  a  hollow  voice,  "remember  always  this  shoe  of 


your  father's!      Never  put  shoe 
on  your  own  foot  without  think- 
ing   of    that    which    was    full    of   blood 
shed     by     the      Chuins — and     kill     the 
Chains  !" 

As  she  spoke,  she  shook  her  head  with  so 
spasmodic  a  movement  that  the  tresses  of  her  black  hair 
fell  back  on  her  neck,  and  gave  a  sinister  look  to  her 
face. 

"I  call  Saint  Labre  to  witness,"  she  went  on,  "that  I 
devote  you  to  the  Blues.  You  shall  be  a  soldier  that 
you  may  avenge  your  father.  Kill  the  Chuins!  Kill 
them,  and  do  as  J  do!  Ha!  they  have  taken  my  hus- 


380  THE    CHOUANS. 

band's  bead;  I  will  give  the  head  of  the  Gars  to  the 
Blues!  " 

She  made  one  spring  to  the  bed-head,  took  a  little  bag 
of  money  from  a  hiding-place,  caught  once  more  the 
hand  of  her  astonished  son,  and  dragged  him  off  fiercely 
without  giving  him  time  to  replace  his  sabot.  They 
both  walked  rapidly  towards  Fougeres  without  turning 
either  of  their  heads  to  the  hut  they  were  leaving. 
When  they  arrived  at  the  crest  of  the  crags  of  Saint 
Sulpice,  Barbette  stirred  the  fagot-fire,  and  the  child 
helped  ,to  heap  it  with  green  broom-shoots  covered  with 
rime,  so  that  the  smoke  might  be  thicker. 

"That  will  last  longer  than  your  father's  life,  than 
mine,  or  than  the  Gars!  "  said  Barbette  to  her  boy,  point- 
ing savagely  to  the  fire. 

At  the  same  mordent  as  that  at  which  Galope-Chopine's 
widow  and  his  son  with  the  bloody  foot  were  watching  the 
edclying  of  the  smoke  with  a  gloomy  air  of  vengeance 
and  curiosity,  Mile,  de  Verneuil  had  her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  same  rock,  endeavoring,  but  in  vain,  to  discover  the 
marquis"  promised  signal.  The  fog,  which  had  grad- 
ually thickened,  buried  the  whole  country  under  a  veil 
whose  tints  of  gray  hid  even  those  parts  of  the  landscape 
which  were  nearest  to  the  town.  She  looked  by  turns, 
with  an  anxiety  which  did  not  lack  sweetness,  to  the 
rocks,  the  castle,  the  buildings  which  seemed  in  the  fog 
like  patches  of  fog  blacker  still.  Close  to  her  window 
some  trees  stood  out  of  the  blue-gray  background  like 
madrepores  of  which  the  sea  gives  a  glimpse  when  it  is 
calm.  The  sun  communicated  to  the  sky  the  dull  tint  of 
tarnished  silver,  while  its  rays  tinted  with  dubious  red 
the  naked  branches  of  the  trees,  on  which  some  belated 
leaves  still  hunt;.  But  Marie's  soul  wras  too  delightfully 
agitated  for  her  to  see  any  evil  omens  in  the  spectacle, 


A    DAY   WITHOUT    A    .MORROW  381 

out  of  harmony,  as  it  was,  with  the  joy  on  which  she  was 
banqueting    in    anticipation.      During   the   last  two   days 
h~r  ideas  had  altered  strangely.      The  ferocity,  the  dis- 
orderly bursts  of  her  passion,  had  slowly  undergone  the 
influence  of  that  epuable  warmth  which  true    love  com- 
municates to  life.      The  certainty  of  being  loved — a  cer- 
tainty   after    which    she    had    quested    through    so   many 
dangers — had  produced  in  her  the  desire  of  returning  to 
those    conventions  of  society  which  sanction  happiness, 
and  which  she  had  herself  only  abandoned  in  despair.      A 
mere   moment   of   love   seemed    to   her    a    futility.     And 
then  she  saw  herself  suddenly  restored  from    the   social 
depths,  where  she  had  been  plunged  by  misfortune,  to  the 
exalted   rank  in  which  for  a  brief  space  her  father  had 
placed  her.      Her  vanity,  which  had    been    stifled    under 
the    cruel    changes   of  a  passion   by  turns    fortunate  and 
slighted,  woke  afresh,  and  showed  her  all  me  advantages 
of  a  high  position.      Born,   as  she  had  been,  to  be  "her 
ladyship,"    would     not    the     effect     of     marrying     Mon-    -ft 
tauran  be  for  her  action  and  life  in  the  sphere  which  was 
her  own?     After  having  known  the  chances  of  a  wholly 
adventurous  life,  she  could,  better  than  another  woman, 
appreciate  the  greatness  of  the  feelings  which  lie  at  the 
root    of    the     family    relation.      Nor     would     marriage, 
motherhood,  and  the  cares  of  both  be  for  her  so  much  a 
task  as  a  rest.      She  loved  the  calm  and  virtuous  life,  a 
glimpse  of  which  opened  across  this  latest  storm,  with 
the  same  feeling  which  makes  a  woman  virtuous  to   sati- 
ety cast  longing  looks  on  an  illicit  passion.      Virtue  was 
for  her  a  new  allurement. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  as  she  came  back  from  the 
window  without  having  seen  fire  on  the  rocks  of  Saint 
Sulpice,  "I  have  trifled  with  him  not  a  little?  But  have 
I  not  thus  come  to  know  how  much  I  was  loved?  Fran- 


382  THE    CHOUANS. 

cine!  'tis  no  more  a  dream!  This  night  I  shall  be  Mar- 
quise de  Montauran!  What  have  I  done  to  deserve  such 
complete  happiness?  Oh!  I  love  him;  and  love  alone 
can  be  the  price  of  love.  Yet  God,  no  doubt,  deigns  to 
reward  me  for  having  kept  my  heart  warm  in  spite  of  so 
many  miseries,  and  to  make  me  forget  my  sufferings; 
for  you  know,  child,  I  have  suffered  much!" 

"To-night,  Marie?  You  Marquise  de  Montauran?  For 
my  part,  till  it  is  actually  true,  I  shall  think  I  dream. 
Who  told  him  all  your  real  nature?" 

"Why,  dear  child,  he  has  not  only  fine  eyes,  but  a 
soul  too!  If  you  had  seen  him,  as  I  have,  in  the  midst 
of  danger!  Ah!  he  must  know  how  to  love  well,  he  is  so 
brave  !" 

"If  you  love  him  so  much,  why  do  you  allow  him  to 
come  to  Fougeres?" 

"Had  we  a  moment  to  talk  together  when  they  took  us 
by  surprise?  Besides,  is  it  not  a  proof  of  his  love?  And 
can  one  ever  have  enough  of  that?  Meanwhile,  do  my  hair. " 

But  she  herself,  with  electric  movements,  disarranged 
a  hundred  times  the  successful  arrangements  of  her  head- 
dress, mingling  thoughts  which  were  still  stormy  with 
the  cares  of  a  coquette.  While  adding  a  fresh  wave  to 
her  hair,  or  making  its  tresses  more  glossy,  she  kept  ask- 
ing herself,  with  remains  of  mistrust,  whether  the  marquis 
was  not  deceiving  her,  and  then  she  concluded  that  such 
trickery  would  be  inexplicable,  since  he  exposed  himself 
boldly  to  immediate  vengeance  by  coming  to  seek  her  at 
Fougeres.  As  she  studied  cunningly  at  her  glass  the 
effects  of  a  sidelong  glance,  of  a  smile,  of  a  slight  con- 
traction of  the  forehead,  of  an  attitude  of  displeasure,  of 
I'u-p,  or  of  disdain,  she  was  still  seeking  some  woman's 
wile  to  test  the  young  chief's  heart  up  to  the  very  last 
moment. 


A    DAY   WITHOUT  A   MORROW.  383 

"You  are  right,  Francine!  "  she  said.  "I  would,  like 
you,  that  the  marriage  were  over.  This  day  is  the  last 
of  my  days  of  cloud — it  is  big  either  with  my  death  or 
with  our  happiness.  This  fog  is  hateful,"  she  added, 
locking  over  towards  the  still  mist-wrapped  summits  of 
Saint  Sulpice.  Then  she  set  to  work  to  arrange  the 
silk  and  muslin  curtains  which  decked  the  window, 
amusing  herself  with  intercepting  the  light,  so  as  to 
produce  in  the  apartment  a  voluptuous  clear-obscure. 

"Francine,"  said  she,  "take  these  toys  which  encumber 
the  chimney-piece  away,  and  leave  nothing  there  but  the 
clock  and  the  two  Dresden  vases,  in  which  I  will  myself 
arrange  the  winter  flowers  that  Corentin  found  for  me. 
Let  all  the  chairs  go  out;  I  will  have  nothing  here  but 
the  sofa  and  one  arm-chair.  When  you  have  done,  child, 
you  shall  sweep  the  carpet,  so  as  to  bring  out  the  color 
of  it;  and  then  you  shall  put  candles  into  the  chimney 
sconces  and  the  candlesticks." 

Marie  gazed  long  and  attentively  at  the  old  tapestry 
which  covered  the  walls  of  the  room.  Led  by  her  native 
taste,  she  succeeded  in  finding,  amid  the  warp,  bright 
shades  of  such  tints  as  might  establish  connection 
between  this  old-world  decoration  and  the  furniture  and 
accessories  of  the  boudoir,  either  by  harmony  of  colors 
or  by  attractive  contrasts.  The  same  principle  guided 
her  in  arranging  the  flowers  with  which  she  filled  the 
twisted  vases  that  adorned  the  room.  The  sofa  was 
placed  near  the  fire.  At  each  side  of  the  bed,  which 
stood  by  the  wall  parallel  to  that  where  the  fireplace 
was,  she  put,  on  two  little  gilt  tables,  great  Dresden 
vases  full  of  foliage  and  flowers  which  exhaled  the  sweet- 
est perfumes.  She  shivered  more  than  once  as  she 
arranged  the  sweeping  drapery  of  green  damask  that  over- 
hung the  bed,  and  as  she  studied  the  curving  lines  of  the 


384  THE    CHOUANS. 

flowered  coverlet  wherewith  she  hid  the  bed  itself. 
Preparations  of  this  kind  always  have  an  indefinable, 
secret  joy,  and  bring  with  them  so  delightful  a  provoca- 
tive that  ofttimes  in  the  midst  of  such  provision  of  de- 
light a  woman  forgets  all  her  doubts,  as  Mile,  de  Ver- 
neuil  was  then  forgetting  hers.  Is  there  not  a  kind  of 
religion  in  this  abundant  care  taken  for  a  beloved  object 
who  is  not  there  to  see  it  or  reward  it,  but  who  is  to  pa}' 
for  it  later  with  the  smile  of  approbation,  which  graceful 
preparations  of  this  kind,  always  so  well  understood, 
obtain?  Then,  so  to  speak,  do  women  yield  themselves 
up  beforehand  to  love ;  and  there  is  not  one  who  does  not 
say  to  herself,  as  Mile,  de  Verneuil  thought,  "To  night 
how  happy  I  shall  be!"  The  most  innocent  of  them  at 
these  times  inscribes  this  sweet  hope  in  the  innermost 
folds  of  muslin  or  of  silk,  and  then  the  harmony  which 
she  establishes  around  her  insensibly  stamps  all  things 
with  a  love-breathing  look.  In  the  center  of  this  volup- 
tuous atmosphere,  things  become  for  her  living  beings, 
witnesses;  and  already  she  transforms  them  into  accom- 
plices of  her  coming  joys.  At  each  movement,  at  each 
thought,  she  is  bold  to  rob  the  future.  Soon  she  waits 
no  more,  she  hopes  no  more,  but  she  finds  fault  with 
silence,  and  the  least  noise  is  challenged  to  give  her  an 
omen,  till  at  last  doubt  comes  and  places  its  crooked 
claws  on  her  heart.  She  burns,  she  is  agitated,  she  feels 
herself  tortured  by  thoughts  which  exert  themselves  like 
purely  physical  forces;  by  turns  she  triumphs  and  is 
martyred,  after  a  fashion  which,  but  for  the  hope  of  joy, 
she  could  not  endure.  Twenty  times  had  Mile,  de  Yer- 
nc-iiil  lifted  the  curtains  in  hopes  of  seeing  a  pillar  of 
smoke  rising  above  the  rocks;  but  the  fog  seemed  to 
grow  grayer  and  grayer  each  moment,  and  in  these  gray 
tints  her  fancy  at  last  showed  her  sinister  omens. 


A   DAY   WITHOUT   A   MORROW.  385 

Finally,  in  a  moment  of  impatience,  she  dropped  the 
curtain,  assuring  herself  that  she  would  come  and  lift  it 
no  more.  She  looked  discontentedly  at  the  room  into 
vhich  she  had  breathed  a  soul  and  a  voice,  and  asked 
herself  whether  it  would  all  be  in  vain.  The  thought 
recalled  her  to  her  arrangements. 

"Little  one,"  she  said  to  Francine,  drawing  her  into  a 
dressing-room  close  to  her  own,  and  lighted  by  a  round 
window  looking  upon  the  dark  corner  where  the  town 
ramparts  joined  the  rocks  of  the  promenade,  "put  this 
right,  and  let  all  be  in  order.  As  for  the  drawing-room, 
you  can  leave  it  untidy  if  you  like,"  she  added,  accom- 
panying her  words  by  one  of  those  smiles  which  women 
reserve  for  their  intimates,  and  the  piquant  delicacy  of 
which  men  can  never  know. 

"Ah,  how  beautiful  you  are!  "  said  the  little  Breton  girl. 

"Why,  fools  that  we  all  are!  is  not  a  lover  always  our 
greatest  adornment?" 

Francine  left  her  lying  languidly  on  the  ottoman,  and 
withdrew  step  by  step,  guessing  that  whether  she  were 
loved  or  not,  her  mistress  would  never  give  up  Mon- 
tauran. 

"Are  you  sure  of  what  you  are  telling  me,  old  woman?" 
said  Hulot  to  Barbette,  who  had  recognized  him  as  she 
entered  Fougeres. 

''Have  you  got  eyes?  Then,  my  good  sir,  look  at  the 
rocks  of  Saint  Sulpice — there,  to  the  right  of  Saint 
Leonard  !" 

Corentin  turned  his  eyes  towards  the  summit  in  the 
direction  in  which  Barbette's  finger  pointed;  and  as  the 
fog  began  to  lift,  he  was  able  to  see  clearly  enough  the 
pillar  of  white  smoke  of  which  Galope-Chopine's  widow 
had  spoken. 
25 


386  THE    CHOUANS. 

"But  when  will  he  come?  eh,  old  woman?  Will  it  be 
at  even,  or  at  night?" 

"Good  sir,"  answered  Barbette,  "I  know  nothing  of 
that." 

"Why  do  you  betray  your  own  side?"  said  Hulot  quick- 
ly, after  drawing  the  peasant  woman  some  steps  away 
from  Corentin. 

"Ah!  my  lord  general,  look  at  my  boy's  foot!  Well! 
it  is  dyed  in  the  blood  of  my  husband,  killed  by  the 
Chums,  saving  your  reverence,  like  a  calf,  to  punish 
him  for  the  word  or  two  you  got  out  of  me  the  day 
before  yesterday  when  I  was  at  work  in  the  field.  Take 
my  boy,  since  you  have  deprived  him  of  father  and 
mother ;  but  make  him  a  true  Blue,  good  sir!  and  let  him 
kill  many  Chuins.  There  are  two  hundred  crowns;  keep 
them  for  him:  if  he  is  careful,  he  should  go  far  with 
them,  since  his  father  took  twelve  years  to  get  them 
together. " 

Hulot  stared  with  wonder  at  the  pale  and  wrinkled 
peasant  woman,  whose  eyes  were  tearless. 

"But,  mother,"  said  he,  "how  about  yourself?  What 
is  to  become  of  you?  It  would  be  better  for  you  to  keep 
this  money. " 

"For  me?"  she  said,  sadly,  shaking  her  head;  "I  have 
no  more  need  of  anything.  You  might  stow  me  away  in 
the  innermost  corner  of  Melusine's  tower,"  and  she 
pointed  to  one  of  the  castle  turrets,  "but  the  Chuins 
would  find  the  way  to  come  and  kill  me." 

She  kissed  her  boy  with  an  expression  of  gloomy  sor- 
row, gazed  at  him,  shed  a  tear  or  two,  gazed  at  him  once 
more,  and  disappeared. 

"Commandant,"  said  Corentin,  "this  is  one  of  those 
opportunities  to  profit  by  which  needs  rather  two  good 
heads  than  one.  We  know  all,  and  we  know  nothing.  To 


A   DAY   WITHOUT   A   MORROW.  387 

surround  Mile,  de  Verneuil's  house  at  this  moment 
would  be  to  set  her  against  us;  and  you,  I,  your  counter- 
Chouans,  and  your  two  battalions  all  put  together,  are 
not  men  enough  to  fight  against  this  girl  if  she  takes  it 
into  her  head  to  save  her  ci-devant.  The  fellow  is  a 
courtier,  and  therefore  wary;  he  is  a  young  man,  and  a 
stout-hearted  one.  We  shall  never  be  able  to  catch  him 
at  his  entry  into  Fougeres.  Besides,  he  is  very  likely 
here  already.  Are  we  to  search  the  houses?  That  would 
be  futile;  for  it  tells  you  nothing,  it  gives  the  alarm, 
and  it  disquiets  the  townsfolk — 

"I  am  going,"  said  Hulot,  out  of  temper,  "to  order  the 
sentinel  on  guard  at  Saint  Leonard  to  lengthen  his  beat 
by  three  paces,  so  that  he  will  come  in  front  of  Mile,  de 
Verneuil's  house.  I  shall  arrange  a  signal  with  each 
sentry;  I  shall  take  up  my  own  post  at  the  guard-house, 
and  when  the  entrance  of  any  young  man  is  reported  to 
me  I  shall  take  a  corporal  with  four  men,  and — 

"And,"  said  Corentin,  interrupting  the  eager  soldier, 
"what  if  the  young  man  is  not  the  marquis?  if  the  mar- 
quis does  not  enter  by  the  gate?  if  he  is  already  with 
Mile,  de  Verneuil?  if — if — ?" 

And  with  this  Corentin  looked  at  the  commandant  with 
an  air  of  superiority  which  was  so  humiliating  that  the 
old  warrior  cried  out,  "A  thousand  thunders!  go  about 
your  own  business,  citizen  of  hell!  What  have  I  to  do 
with  all  that?  If  the  cockchafer  drops  into  one  of  my 
guard-houses,  I  must  needs  shoot  him;  if  I  hear  that 
he  is  in  a  house,  I  must  needs  go  and  surround  him,  catch 
him,  and  shoot  him  there.  But  the  devil  take  me  if  I 
puzzle  my  brains  in  order  to  stain  my  own  uniform!" 

"Commandant,  letters  signed  by  three  ministers  bid 
you  obey  Mile,  de  Verneuil." 


388  THE    CHOUANS. 

"Then,  citizen,  let  her  come  herself  and  order  me.  I 
will  see  what  can  be  done  then." 

"Very  well,  citizen,"  replied  Corentin  haughtily; 
"she  shall  do  so  without  delay.  She  shall  tell  you  her- 
self the  very  hour  and  minute  of  the  ci-devanf  s  arrival. 
Perhaps,  indeed,  she  will  not  be  at  ease  till  she  has  seen 
you  posting  your  sentinels  and  surrounding  her  house." 

"The  devil  has  turned  man! "  said  the  old  demi- 
brigadier  sorrowfully  to  himself,  as  he  saw  Corentin 
striding  hastily  up  the  Queen's  Staircase,  on  which  this 
scene  had  passed,  and  reaching  the  gate  of  Saint  Leonard. 
"He  will  hand  over  Citizen  Montauran  to  me  bound  hand 
and  foot,"  went  on  Hulot,  talking  to  himself;  "and  I 
shall  have  the  nuisance  of  presiding  over  a  court  mar- 
tial. After  all,"  said  he,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  "the 
Gars  is  an  enemy  of  the  Republic;  he  killed  my  poor 
Gerard,  and  it  will  be  at  worst  one  noble  the  less.  Let 
him  go  to  the  devil  !"  And  he  turned  briskly  on  his  boot- 
heel,  and  went  the  rounds  of  the  town  whistling  the  Mar- 
seillaise. 

Mile,  de  Verneuil  was  deep  in  one  of  those  reveries 
whose  secrets  remain,  as  it  were,  buried  in  the  abysses  of 
the  soul,  and  whose  crowd  of  contradictory  thoughts 
often  show  their  victims  that  a  stormy  and  passionate 
life  may  be  held  between  four  walls,  without  leaving  the 
couch  on  which  existence  is  then  passed.  In  presence 
of  the  catastrophe  of  the  drama  which  she  had  come  to 
seek,  the  girl  summoned  up  before  her  by  turns  the 
scenes  of  love  and  anger  which  had  so  powerfully  agi- 
tated her  life  during  the  ten  days  that  had  passed  since 
her  first  meeting  with  the  marquis.  As  she  did  so  the 
sound  of  a  man's  step  echoed  in  the  saloon  beyond  her 
apartment;  she  started,  the  door  opened,  she  turned  her 
head  sharply,  and  saw — Corentin. 


A  DAY  WITHOUT  A  MORROW.  389 

"Little  traitress!  "  said  the  head-agent  of  police,  "will 
the  fancy  take  you  to  deceive  me  again?  Ah,  Marie, 
Marie!  You  are  playing  a  very  dangerous  game  in  leav- 
ing me  out  of  it,  and  arranging  your  coups  without  con- 
sulting me!  If  the  marquis  has  escaped  his  fate — ' 

"It  is  not  your  fault,  you  mean?"  answered  Mile,  de 
Verneuil,  with  profound  sarcasm.  "Sir!  "  she  went  on  in 
a  grave  voice,  "by  what  right  have  you  once  more 
entered  my  house?" 

"Your  house?"  asked  he,  with  bitter  emphasis. 

"You  remind  me,"  replied  she,  with  an  air  of  nobility, 
"that  I  am  not  at  home.  Perhaps  you  intentionally 
chose  this  house  for  the  safer  commission  of  your  mur- 
ders here?  I  will  leave  it;  I  would  take  refuge  in  a 
desert  rather  than  any  longer  receive — " 

"Say  the  word — spies!  "  retorted  Corentin.  "But  this 
house  is  neither  yours  nor  mine:  it  belongs  to  Govern- 
ment; and  as  to  leaving  it,  you  would  do  nothing  of  the 
kind,"  added  he,  darting  a  devilish  look  at  her. 

Mile,  de  Verneuil  rose  in  an  impulse  of  wrath,  and 
made  a  step  or  two  forwards;  but  she  stopped  suddenly 
as  she  saw  Corentin  lift  the  window  curtain  and  begin 
to  smile  as  he  requested  her  to  come  close  to  him. 

"Do  you  see  that  pillar  of  smoke?"1  said  he,  with  the 
intense  calm  which  he  knew  how  to  preserve  on  his 
pallid  face,  however  deeply  he  was  moved. 

"What  connection  can  there  be  between  my  departure 
and  the  weeds  that  they  are  burning  there?"  asked  she. 

"Why  is  your  voice  so  changed  in  tone?"  answered 
Corentin.  "Poor  lirtle  girl!"  he  added  gently,  "I  know 
all.  The  marquis  is  coming  to-day  to  Fougeres,  and  it 
is  not  with  the  intention  of  giving  him  up  to  us  that 
you  have  arranged  this  boudoir,  these  flowers,  these  wax- 
lights,  in  so  luxurious  a  fashion." 


39°  THE    CHOUANS. 

Mile,  de  Verneuil  grew  pale  as  she  saw  the  marquis' 
death  written  in  the  eyes  of  this  tiger  with  a  human  coun- 
tenance; and  the  passion  which  she  felt  for  her  lover  rose 
near  madness.  Every  hair  of  her  head  seemed  to  pour 
into  it  a  fierce  and  intolerable  pain,  and  she  fell  upon 
the  ottoman.  Corentin  stood  for  a  minute  with  his  arms 
folded,  half  pleased  at  a  torture  which  avenged  him  for 
the  sarcasm  and  scorn  which  this  woman  had  heaped 
upon  him,  half  vexed  at  seeing  the  sufferings  of  a  creat- 
ure whose  yoke,  heavy  as  it  might  be,  always  had  some- 
thing agreeable. 

"She  loves  him!"  muttered  he. 

"Love  him?"  cried  she,  "what  does  that  word  mean? 
Corentin!  he  is  my  life,  my  soul,  the  breath  of  my 
being!  "  She  flung  herself  at  the  feet  of  the  man,  whose 
calm  was  terrible  to  her. 

"Soul  of  mud!  "  she  said,  "I  would  rather  abase  myself 
to  gain  his  life  than  to  lose  it.  I  would  save  him  at 
the  price  of  every  drop  of  my  blood!  Speak!  What 
will  you  have?" 

Corentin  started. 

"I  came  to  put  myself  at  your  orders,  Marie,"  he  said, 
the  tones  of  his  voice  full  of  gentleness,  and  raising  her 
up  with  graceful  politeness.  "Yes,  Marie!  your  insults 
will  not  hinder  me  from  being  all  yours,  provided  that 
you  deceive  me  no  more.  You  know,  Marie,  that  no 
man  fools  me  with  impunity." 

"Ah!  if  you  would  have  me  love  you,  Corentin,  help 
me  to  save  him!  " 

"Well,  at  what  hour  does  the  marquis  come?"  said 
he,  constraining  himself  to  make  the  inquiry  in  a  calm 
tone. 

"Alas!    I  know  not.  " 

They  ^a/ce.'d  at  each  other  without  speaking. 


A   DAY   WITHOUT   A   MORROW.  39! 

"I  am  lost!"  said  Mile,  de  Verneuil  to  herself. 

"She  is  deceiving  me,"  thought  Corentin.  "Marie," 
he  continued  aloud,  "I  have  two  maxims:  the  one  is, 
never  to  believe  a  word  of  what  women  say,  which  is  the 
way  not  to  be  their  dupe;  the  other  is,  always  to  inquire 
whether  they  have  not  some  interest  in  doing  the  con- 
trary of  what  they  say,  and  behaving  in  a  manner  the 
reverse  of  the  actions  which  they  are  good  enough  to 
confide  to  us.  I  think  we  understand  each  other  now?" 

"Excellently,"  replied  Mile,  de  Verneuil.  "You  want 
proofs  of  my  good  faith;  but  I  am  keeping  them  for  the 
minute  when  you  shall  have  given  me  some  proofs  of  yours. " 

"Good-bye,  then,  mademoiselle,"  said  Corentin  dryly. 

"Come,"  continued  the  girl,  smiling,  'take  a  chair.  Sit 
there,  and  do  not  sulk,  or  else  I  shall  manage  very  well  to 
save  the  marquis  without  you.  As  for  the  three  hun- 
dred thousand  francs,  the  prospect  of  which  is  always 
before  your  eyes,  I  can  tell  them  out  for  you  in  gold  there 
on  the  chimney-piece  the  moment  that  the  marquis  is  in 
safety. " 

Corentin  rose,  fell  back  a  step  or  two,  and  stared  at 
Mile,  de  Verneuil. 

"You  have  become  rich  in  a  very  short  time,"  said  he, 
in  a  tone  the  bitterness  of  which  was  still  disguised. 

"Montauran,"  said  Marie,  with  a  smile  of  compassion, 
"could  himself  offer  you  much  more  than  that  for  his 
ransom ;  so  prove  to  me  that  you  have  the  means  of  hold- 
ing him  scathless,  and— 

"Could  not  you."  said  Corentin  suddenly,  "let  him 
escape  the  same  moment  that  he  comes?  For  Hulot  does 
not  know  the  hour  and — 

He  stopped,  as  if  he  reproached  himself  with  having 
said  too  much. 

"But  can  it  \>e you  who  are  applying  to  me  for  a  device?" 


392 


THE    CHOUANS. 


he  went  on,  smiling  in  the  most  natural  manner.  'Listen, 
Marie !  I  am  convinced  of  your  sincerity.  Promise  to 
make  me  amends  for  all  that  I  lose  in  your  service, 
and  I  will  lull  the  blockhead  of  a  commandant  to  sleep 
so  neatly  that  the  marquis  will  enjoy  as  much  liberty  at 
Fougeres  as  at  Saint  James." 

"I  promise  you!  "  replied  the  girl  with  a  kind  of 
solemnity. 

"Not  in  that  way, "  said  he.      "Swear  it  by  your  mother. " 


Mile,  de  Verneuil  started;  but  raising  a  trembling 
hand,  she  gave  the  oath  demanded  by  this  man,  whose 
manner  had  just  changed  so  suddenly. 

"You  can  do  with  me  as  you  will,"  said  Corentin.  "Do 
not  deceive  me,  and  you  will  bless  me  this  evening." 

"I  believe  you,  Corentin!"  cried  Mile,  ds  Verneuil, 
quite  touched. 

She  bowed  farewell  to  him  with  a  gentle  inclination  of 
her  head,  and  he  on  his  side  smiled  with  amiability, 
mingled  with  surprise,  as  he  saw  the  expression  of  tender 
melancholy  on  her  face. 


A   DAY  WITHOUT   A   MORROW.  393 

"What  a  charming  creature! "  cried  Corentin  to  him- 
self as  he  departed.  "Shall  I  never  possess  her,  and 
make  her  at  once  the  instrument  of  my  fortune  and  the 
source  of  my  pleasures?  To  think  of  her  throwing  her- 
self at  my  feet!  Oh,  yes!  the  marquis  shall  perish; 
and  if  I  cannot  obtain  the  girl  except  by  plunging  her 
into  the  mire,  I  will  plunge  her.  Anyhow,"  he  thought, 
as  he  came  to  the  square  whither  his  steps  had  led  him 
without  his  own  knowledge,  "perhaps  she  really  distrusts 
me  no  longer.  A  hundred  thousand  crowns  at  a  moment's 
notice!  She  thinks  me  avaricious.  Either  it  is  a  trick, 
or  she  has  married  him  already." 

Corentin,  lost  in  thought,  could  not  make  up  his  mind 
to  any  certain  course  of  action.  The  fog,  which  the  sun 
had  dispersed  towards  midday,  was  regaining  all  its 
force  by  degrees,  and  became  so  thick  that  he  could  no 
longer  make  out  the  trees  even  at  a  short  distance. 

"Here  is  a  new  piece  of  ill-luck,"  said  he  to  himself, 
as  he  went  slowly  home.  "It  is  impossible  to  see  any- 
thing half  a  dozen  paces  off.  The  weather  is  protecting 
our  lovers.  How  is  one  to  watch  a  house  which  is 
guarded  by  such  a  fog  as  this?  Who  goes  there?"  cried 
he,  clutching  the  arm  of  a  stranger  who  appeared  to 
have  escaladed  the  promenade  across  the  most  dangerous 
crags. 

1  'Tis  I,"  said  a  childish  voice  simply. 

"Ah!  the  little  boy  Redfoot.  Don't  you  wish  to  avenge 
your  father?"  asked  Corentin. 

"Yes!  "  said  the  child. 

"  'Tis  well.     Do  you  know  the  Gars?  " 

"Yes." 

"Better  still.  Well,  do  not  leave  me.  Do  exactly 
whatsoever  I  tell  you,  and  you  will  finish  your  mother's 
work  and  gain  big  sous.  Do  you  like  big  sous'/" 


394 


THE    CHOUANS. 


"Yes. " 

"You  like  big  sous,  and  you  want  to  kill  the  Gars?  I 
will  take  care  of  you.  Come,  Marie,"  said  Corentin  to 
himself  after  a  pause,  "you  shall  give  him  up  to  us  your- 
self! She  is  too  excitable  to  judge  calmly  of  the  blow  I 
am  going  to  deal  her;  and  besides,  passion  never  reflects. 
She  does  not  know  the  marquis'  handwriting,  so  here  is 
the  moment  to  spread  a  net  for  her  into  which  her 
character  will  make  her  rush  blindly.  But  to  assure  the 
success  of  my  trick,  I  have  need  of  Hulot,  and  I  must 
hasten  to  see  him." 

At  the  same  time,  Mile,  de  Verneuil  and  Francine  were 
debating  the  means  of  extricating  the  marquis  from  the 
dubious  generosity  of  Corentin  and  the  bayonets  of 
Hulot. 

"I  will  go  and  warn  him,"  said  the  Breton  girl. 

"Silly  child!  do  you  know  where  he  is?  Why,  I, 
with  all  my  heart's  instinct  t,o  aid  me,  might  search 
long  without  meeting  him." 

After  having  devised  no  small  number  of  the  idle  proj- 
ects which  are  so  easy  to  carry  out  by  the  fireside,  Mile, 
de  Yerneuil  cried,  "When  I  see  him,  his  danger  will 
inspire  me!  " 

Then  she  amused  herself,  like  all  ardent  spirits,  with 
the  determination  not  to  resolve  till  the  last  moment, 
trusting  in  her  star,  or  in  that  instinctive  address  which 
seldom  deserts  women.  Never,  perhaps,  had  her  heart 
throbbed  so  wildly.  Sometimes  she  remained  as  if 
thunderstruck,  with  fixed  eyes;  and  then,  at  the  least 
noise,  she  quivered  like  the  half-uprooted  trees  which 
the  wood-cutter  shakes  strongly  with  a  rope  to  hasten 
their  fall.  Suddenly  a  violent  explosion,  produced  by 
the  discharge  of  a  dozen  guns,  echoed  in  the  distance. 


A  DAY  WITHOUT  A   MORROW.  395 

Mile,  de  Verneuil  turned  pale,  caught  Francine's  hand, 
and  said  to  her: 

"I  die:    they  have  killed  him!  " 

The  heavy  tread  of  a  soldier  was  heard  in  the  saloon, 
and  the  terrified  Francine  rose  and  ushered  in  a  cor- 
poral. The  Republican,  after  making  a  military  salute 
to  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  presented  to  her  some  letters  writ- 
ten on  not  very  clean  paper.  The  soldier,  receiving  no 
answer  from  the  young  lady,  withdrew,  observing, 
"Madame,  'tis  from  the  commandant." 

Mile,  de  Verneuil,  a  prey  to  sinister  forebodings,  read 
the  letter,  which  seemed  to  have  been  hastily  written  by 
Hulot: 

"'Mademoiselle,  my  counter-Chouans  have  seized  one 
of  the  Gars'  messengers,  who  has  just  been  shot.  Among 
the  letters  found  on  him,  that  which  I  inclose  may  be 
of  some  concern  to  you,  etc.' 

"Thank  heaven!  'tis  not  he  whom  they  have  killed," 
cried  she,  throwing  the  letter  into  the  fire. 

She  breathed  more  freely,  and  greedily  read  the  note 
which  had  been  sent  her.  It  was  from  the  marquis,  and 
appeared  to  be  addressed  to  Madame  du  Gua: 

"'No,  my  angel,  I  shall  not  go  to-night  to  the  Vive- 
tiere.  To-night  you  will  lose  your  wager  with  the 
count,  and  I  shall  triumph  over  the  Republic  in  the  per- 
son of  this  delicious  girl,  who,  you  will  agree,  is  surely 
worth  one  night.  'Tis  the  only  real  advantage  that  I 
shall  reap  from  this  campaign,  for  La  Vendee  is  submit- 
ting. There  is  nothing  more  to  do  in  France;  and,  of 
course,  we  shall  return  together  to  England.  But  to- 
morrow for  serious  business!'  " 

The  note  dropped  from  her  hands ;  she  closed  her  eyes, 
kept  the  deepest  silence,  and  remained  leaning  back, 
her  head  resting  on  a  cushion.  After  a  long  pause,  she 


THE  CHOUANS. 

raised  her  eyes  to  the  clock,  which  marked  the  hour  of 
four. 

"And  monsieur  keeps  me  waiting!  "  she  said  with  sav- 
age irony. 

"Oh!    if  he  only  would  not  come!  "  cried  Francine. 

"If  he  did  not  come,"  said  Marie  in  a  stifled  voice,  "I 
would  go  myself  to  meet  him!  But  no!  he  cannot  be 
long  now.  Francine,  am  I  very  beautiful?" 

"You  are  very  pale." 

"Look!  "  went  on  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  "look  at  this  per- 
fumed chamber,  these  flowers,  these  lights,  this  intoxi- 
cating vapor!  Might  not  all  this  give  a  foretaste  of 
heaven  to  him  whom  to-night  I  would  plunge  in  the  joys 
of  love?" 

"What  is  the  matter,  mademoiselle?" 

"I  am  betrayed,  deceived,  abused,  tricked,  cheated, 
ruined!  And  I  will  kill  him!  I  will  tear  him  in  pieces. 
Why,  yes!  there  was  always  in  his  manner  a  scorn 
which  he  hid  but  ill,  and  which  I  did  not  choose  to  see. 
Oh!  it  will  kill  me!  Fool  that  I  am,"  said  she,  with  a 
laugh.  "He  comes!  I  have  the  night  in  which  to  teach 
him  that,  whether  I  be  married  or  no,  a  man  who  has 
once  possessed  me  can  never  abandon  me !  I  will  suit  my 
vengeance  to  his  offense,  and  he  shall  die  despairing!  I 
thought  he  had  some  greatness  in  his  soul;  but  doubt- 
less 'tis  a  lackey's  son.  Assuredly  he  was  clever  enough 
in  deceiving  me,  for  I  still  can  hardly  believe  that  the 
man  who  was  capable  of  handing  me  over  without  com- 
passion to  Pille-Miche  could  descend  to  a  trick  worthy 
of  Scapin.  'Tis  so  easy  to  dupe  a  loving  woman,  that 
it  is  the  basest  of  coward's  deeds!  That  he  should  kill 
me,  well  and  good!  That  he  should  lis — he  whom  I  have 
C'xaltccl  so  hit^h!  To  the  scaffold!  To  the  scaffold! 
Ah!  I  would  1  could  see  him  guillotined!  And  am  I 


A   KAY   WITHOUT   A   MORROW.  397 

after  all  so  very  cruel?  He  will  die  covered  with  kisses 
and  caresses  which  will  have  been  worth  to  him  twenty 
years  of  life  ! " 

"Marie,"  said  Francine,  with  an  angelic  sweetness,  "be 
your  lover's  victim,  as  so  many  others  are;  but  do  not 
make  yourself  either  his  mistress  or  his  executioner. 
Keep  his  image  at  the  bottom  of  your  heart,  without 
making  it  a  torture  to  yourself.  If  there  were  no  joy  in 
hopeless  love,  what  would  become  of  us,  weak  women 
that  we  are?  That  God,  Marie,  on  whom  you  never 
think,  will  reward  us  for  having  followed  our  vocation 
on  earth — our  vocation  to  love  and  to  suffer!" 

"Kitten!  "  answered  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  patting  Fran- 
cine' s  hand.  "Your  voice  is  very  sweet  and  very  seduc- 
tive. Reason  is  attractive  indeed  in  your  shape.  I 
would  I  could  obey  you." 

"You  pardon  him?     You  would  not  give  him  up?" 

"Silence!  Speak  to  me  no  more  of  that  man.  Com- 
pared with  him,  Corentin  is  a  noble  being.  Do  you 
understand  me?" 

She  rose,  hiding  under  a  face  of  hideous  calm  both  the 
distraction  which  seized  her  and  her  inextinguishable  thirst 
of  vengeance.  Her  gait,  slow  and  measured,  announced 
a  certain  irrevocableness  of  resolve.  A  prey  to  thought, 
devouring  the  insult,  and  too  proud  to  confess  the  least 
of  her  torments,  she  went  to  the  picket  at  the  gate  of 
Saint  Leonard  to  ask  where  the  commandant  was  stay- 
ing. She  had  hardly  left  her  house  when  Corentin 
entered  it 

"Oh,  Monsieur  Corentin!"  cried  Francine,  "if  you  are 
interested  in  that  young  man,  save  him!  Mademoiselle 
is  going  to  give  him  up.  This  wretched  paper  has 
ruined  all!  " 


398  THE    CHOUANS. 

Corentin  took  the  letter  carelessly,  asking,  "And  where 
has  she  gone?" 

"I  do  not  know." 

"I  will  hasten,"  said  he,  "to  save  her  from  her  own 
despair." 

He  vanished,  taking  the  letter  with  him,  left  the 
house  quickly,  and  said  to  the  little  boy  who  was  play- 
ing before  the  door,  "Which  way  did  the  lady  who  has 
just  come  out  go?" 

Galope-Chopine's  son  made  a  step  or  two  with  Coren- 
tin to  show  him  the  steep  street  which  led  to  the  Porfe 
Saint  Leonard.  "That  way,"  said  he,  without  hesitation, 
obeying  the  instinct  of  vengeance  with  which  his  mother 
had  inspired  his  heart. 

At  the  same  moment  four  men  in  disguise  entered 
Mile,  de  Verneuil's  house  without  being  seen  either  by 
the  little  boy  or  by  Corentin. 

"Go  back  to  your  post,"  said  the  spy.  "Pretend  to 
amuse  yourself  by  twisting  the  shutter  latches;  but  keep 
a  sharp  lookout  and  watch  everything,  even  on  the 
house-tops." 

Corentin  darted  quickly  in  the  direction  pointed  out 
by  the  boy,  thought  he  recognized  Mile,  de  Verneuil 
through  the  fog,  and  actually  caught  her  up  at  the 
moment  when  she  reached  the  guard  at  Saint  Leonard's. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  said  he,  holding  out  his  arrn. 
"You  are  pale.  What  has  happened?  Is  it  proper  for 
you  to  go  out  alone  like  this?  Take  my  arm." 

"Where  is  the  commandant?"  asked  she. 

Mile,  de  Verneuil  had  scarcely  finished  the  words 
when  she  heard  the  movement  of  a  reconnoitring  party 
outside  Saint  Leonard's  Gate,  and  soon  she  caught 
Hulot's  deep  voice  in  the  midst  of  the  noise. 

"God's  thunder!"  cried  he,  "I  never  saw  darker  weather 


A    DAY   WITHOUT   A    MORROW.  399 

than  this  to  make  rounds  in.  The  ci-devant  has  the  clerk  of 
the  weather  at  his  orders." 

"What  are  you  grumbling  at?"  answered  Mile,  de  Ver- 
neuil,  pressing  his  arm  hard.  "This  fog  is  good  to 
cover  vengeance  as  well  as  perfidy.  Commandant,"  added 
she,  in  a  low  voice,  "the  question  is  how  to  concert  meas- 
ures with  me  so  that  the  Gars  cannot  escape  to-day." 

"Is  he  at  your  house?"  asked  Hulot,  in  a  voice  the 
emotion  of  which  showed  his  wonder. 

"No,"  she  answered.  "But  you  must  give  me  a  trusty 
man,  and  I  will  send  him  to  warn  you  of  the  marquis' 
arrival. " 

"What  are  you  thinking  of?"  said  Corentin  eagerly,  to 
Marie.  "A  soldier  in  your  house  would  alarm  him ;  but 
a  child  (and  I  know  where  to  find  one)  will  inspire  no 
distrust." 

"Commandant,"  went  on  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  "thanks 
to  the  fog  you  are  cursing,  you  can  surround  my  house 
this  very  moment.  Set  soldiers  everywhere.  Place  a 
picket  in  Saint  Leonard's  Church,  to  make  sure  of  the 
esplanade  on  which  the  windows  of  my  drawing-room 
open.  Post  men  on  the  promenade,  for  though  the  win- 
dow of  my  room  is  twenty  feet  above  the  ground,  despair 
sometimes  lends  men  strength  to  cover  the  most  danger- 
ous distances.  Listen!  I  shall  probably  send  this  gen- 
tleman away  by  the  door  of  my  house;  so  be  sure  to 
give  none  but  a  brave  man  the  duty  of  watching  it,  for," 
said  she,  with  a  sigh,  "no  one  can  deny  him  courage,  and 
he  will  defend  himself!" 

"Gudin!  "  cried  the  commandant ,  and  the  young  Fou- 
gerese  started  from  the  midst  of  the  force  which  had 
come  back  with  Hulot,  and  which  had  remained  drawn 
up  at  some  distance. 

"Listen,  my  boy,"  said  the  old  soldier  to  him  in  a  low 


4OO  THE    CHOUANS. 

voice;  "this  brimstone  of  a  girl  is  giving  up  the  Gars 
to  us.  I  do  not  know  why,  but  that  does  not  matter ; 
it  is  no  business  of  ours.  Take  ten  men  with  you,  and 
post  yourself  so  as  to  watch  the  close  at  the  end  of 
which  the  girl's  house  is;  but  take  care  that  neither 
you  nor  your  men  are  seen. " 

"Yes,  commandant;    I  know  the  ground." 

"Well,  my  boy,"  went  on  Hulot;  "Beau-Pied  shall 
come  and  tell  you  from  me  when  you  must  draw  fox. 
Try  to  get  up  with  the  marquis  yourself,  and  kill  him  if 
YOU  can,  so  that  I  may  not  have  to  shoot  him  by  form  of 
law.  You  shall  be  lieutenant  in  a  fortnight,  or  my  name 
is  not  Hulot.  Here,  mademoiselle,  is  a  fellow  who  will 
not  shirk,"  said  he  to  the  young  lady,  pointing  to  Gudin. 
"He  will  keep  good  watch  before  your  house,  and  if  the 
ci-iferant  comes  out  or  tries  to  get  in,  he  will  not  miss 
him." 

Gudin  went  off  with  half  a  score  of  soldiers. 

"Are  you  quite  sure  what  you  are  doing?"  whispered 
Corentin  to  Mile,  de  Verneuil.  She  answered  him  not, 
but  watched  with  a  kind  of  satisfaction  the  departure  of 
the  men  who,  under  the  sub-lieutenant's  orders,  went  to 
take  up  their  post  on  the  promenade,  and  of  those  who. 
according  to  Hulot's  instructions,  posted  themselves 
along  the  dark  walls  of  Saint  Leonard's. 

"There  are  houses  adjoining  mine, "  she  said  to  the  com- 
mandant. "Surround  them  too.  Let  us  not  prepare 
regret  for  ourselves  by  neglecting  one  single  precaution 
that  we  ought  to  take. " 

"She  has  gone  mad!  "   thought  Hulot. 

"Am  I  not  a  prophet?"  said  Corentin  in  his  ear.  "The 
child  I  mean  to  send  into  the  house  is  the  little  boy 
Bloody  Foot,  and  so — " 

He    did    not  finish.      Mile,   de    Verneuil   had  suddenly 


A    DAY   WITHOUT   A    MORROW.  40! 

sprung  towards  her  house,  whither  he  followed  her, 
whistling  cheerfully,  and  when  he  caught  her  up  she  had 
already  gained  the  door,  where  Corentin  also  found 
Galope-Chopine'_s  son. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  he  to  her,  "take  this  little  boy 
with  you.  You  can  have  no  more  unsuspicious  or  more 
active  messenger.  When"  (and  he  breathed  as  it  were  in 
the  child's  ear)  "you  see  the  Gars  come  in,  whatever 
they  tell  you,  run  away,  come  and  find  me  at  the  guard- 
house, and  I  will  give  you  enough  to  keep  you  in  cakes 
for  the  rest  of  your  life." 

The  youthful  Breton  pressed  Corentin's  hand  hard  at 
these  words,  and  followed  Mile,  de  Verneuil. 

"Now,  my  good  friends! "  cried  Corentin,  when  the 
door  shut,  "come  to  an  explanation  when  you  like!  If 
you  make  love  now,  my  little  marquis,  it  will  be  on 
your  shroud! " 

But  then,  unable  to  make  up  his  mind  to  lose  sight  of 
the  fateful  abode,  he  directed  his  steps  to  the  prome- 
nade, where  he  found  the  commandant  busy  in  giving 
some  orders.  Soon  night  fell;  and  two  hours  passed 
without  the  different  sentinels,  who  were  stationed  at 
short  distances,  perceiving  anything  which  gave  suspi- 
cion that  the  marquis  had  crossed  the  triple  line  of 
watchful  lurkers  who  beset  the  three  accessible  sides  of 
the  Papegaut's  Tower.  A  score  of  times  Corentin  had 
gone  from  the  promenade  to  the  guard-house ;  as  often 
his  expectation  had  been  deceived,  and  his  youthful  emis- 
sary had  not  come  to  meet  him.  The  spy,  lost  in 
thought,  paced  the  promenade,  a  victim  to  the  tortures 
of  three  terrible  contending  passions — love,  ambition,  and 
greed.  Eight  struck  on  all  the  clocks.  The  moon  rose 
very  late,  so  that  the  fog  and  the  night  wrapped  in 
ghastly  darkr.ess  the  spot  where  the  tragedy  devised  by 
26 


4O2  THE    CHOUANS. 

this  man  was  about  to  draw  to  its  catastrophe.  The 
agent  of  police  managed  to  stifle  his  passions,  crossed 
his  arms  tightly  on  his  breast,  and  never  turned  his  eyes 
from  the  window  which  rose  like  a  phantom  of  light 
above  the  tower.  When  his  steps  led  him  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  glens  which  edged  the  precipice,  he  mechan- 
ically scrutinized  the  fog,  which  was  furrowed  by  the  pale 
glow  of  some  lights  burning  here  and  there  in  the  houses 
of  the  town  and  suburbs  above  and  below  the  rampart. 
The  deep  silence  which  prevailed  was  only  disturbed  by 
the  'murmur  of  the  Nan9on,  by  the  mournful  peals  from 
the  belfry  at  intervals,  by  the  heavy  steps  of  the  senti- 
nels, or  by  the  clash  of  arms  as  they  came,  hour  after 
hour,  to  relieve  guard.  Mankind  and  nature  alike — all 
had  become  solemn. 

It  was  just  at  this  time  that  Pille-Miche  observed,  "It 
is  as  black  as  a  wolf's  throat!  " 

"Get  on  with  you!"  answered  Marche-a-Terre,  "and 
don't  speak  any  more  than  a  dead  dog  does!" 

"I  scarcely  dare  draw  my  breath,"  rejoined  the  Chouan. 

"If  the  man  who  has  just  displaced  a  stone  wants  my 
knife  sheathed  in  his  heart,  he  has  only  got  to  do  it 
again,"  whispered  Marche-a-Terre  in  so  low  a  voice  that 
it  blended  with  the  ripple  of  the  Nan£on  waters. 

"But  it  was  me,"  said  Pille-Miche. 

"Well,  you  old  money-bag,"  said  the  leader,  "slip  along 
on  your  belly  like  a  snake,  or  else  we  shall  leave  our 
carcasses  here  before  the  time!  " 

"I  say,  Marche-a-Terre!"  went  on  the  incorrigible 
Pille-Miche,  helping  himself  with  his  hands  to  hoist 
himself  along  on  his  stomach  and  reach  the  level  where 
was  his  comrade,  into  whose  ear  he  whispered,  so  low 
that  the  Chouans  who  followed  them  could  not  catch  a 


A  DAY    WITHOUT  A    MORROW.  403 

syllable,  "I  say,  Marche-a-Terre!  if  we  may  trust  our 
Grande-Garce,  there  must  be  famous  booty  up  there! 
Shall  we  two  share?" 

"Listen,  Pille-Miche!  "  said  Marche-a-Terre,  halting, 
still  flat  on  his  stomach;  and  the  whole  body  imitated 
his  movement,  so  exhausted  were  the  Chouans  by  the 
difficulties  which  the  scarped  rock  offered  to  their  prog- 
ress. "I  know  you,"  went  on  Marche-a-Terre,  "to  be  one 
of  those  honest  Jack  Take-alls  who  are  quite  as  ready  to 
give  blows  as  to  receive  them  when  there  is  no  other 
choice.  We  have  not  come  here  to  put  on  dead  men's 
shoes:  we  are  devil  against  devil,  and  woe  to  those  who 
have  the  shortest  nails.  The  Grande-Garce  has  sent  us 
here  to  save  the  Gars.  Come,  lift  your  dog's  face  up 
and  look  at  that  window  above  the  tower!  He  is  there." 

At  the  same  moment  midnight  struck.  The  moon  rose, 
and  gave  to  the  fog  the  aspect  of  a  white  smoke.  Pille- 
Miche  clutched  Marche-a-Terre' s  arm  violently,  and, 
without  speaking,  pointed  to  the  triangular  steel  of 
some  glancing  bayonets  ten  feet  above  them. 

"The  Blues  are  there  already!  "  said  he;  "we  shall  do 
nothing  by  force." 

"Patience!"  answered  Marche-a-Terre;  "if  I  examined 
the  whole  place  rightly  this  morning,  we  shall  find  at  the 
foot  of  the  Papegaut's  Tower,  between  the  ramparts  and 
the  promenade,  a  little  space  where  they  constantly 
store  manure,  and  on  which  a  man  can  drop  from  above 
as  on  a  bed." 

"If  Saint  Labre,"  said  Pille-Miche,  "would  graciously 
change  the  blood  which  is  going  to  flow  into  good 
cider,  the  men  of  Fotigeres  would  find  stores  of  it  to- 
morrow! " 

Marche  a-Terre  covered  his  friend's  mouth  with  his 
broad  hand.  Then  a  caution,  given  under  his  breath,  ran 


404  THE    CHOUANS. 

from  file  to  file  to  the  very  last  Chouan  who  hung  in  the 
air,  clinging  to  the  briars  of  the  schist.  Indeed,  Coren- 
tin's  ear  was  too  well  trained  not  to  have  heard  the  rustle 
of  some  bushes  which  the  Chouans  had  pulled  about, 
and  the  slight  noise  of  the  pebbles  rolling  to  the  bottom 
of  the  precipice,  standing,  as  he  did,  on  the  edge  of  the 
esplanade.  Marche-a-Terre,  who  seemed  to  possess  the 
gift  of  seeing  in  the  dark,  or  whose  senses,  from  their 
continual  exercise,  must  have  acquired  the  delicacy  of 
those  of  savages,  had  caught  sight  of  Corentin.  Perhaps, 
like  a  well-broken  dog,  he  had  even  scented  him.  The 
detective  listened  in  vain  through  the  silence,  stared  in 
vain  at  the  natural  wall  of  schist;  he  could  discover 
nothing  there.  If  the  deceptive  glimmer  of  the  fog 
allowed  him  to  perceive  some  Chouans,  he  took  them  for 
pieces  of  rock,  so  well  did  these  human  bodies  preserve 
the  air  of  inanimate  masses.  The  danger  which  the 
party  ran  was  of  brief  duration.  Corentin  was  drawn 
off  by  a  very  distinct  noise  which  was  audible  at  the 
other  end  of  the  promenade,  where  the  supporting  wall 
ceased  and  the  rapid  slope  of  the  cliff  began.  A  path 
traced  along  the  border  of  the  schist,  and  communicat- 
ing with  the  Queen's  Staircase,  ended  exactly  at  this 
meeting-place.  As  Corentin  arrived  there,  he  saw  a  figure 
rise  as  if  by  magic,  and  when  he  put  out  his  hand  to 
grasp  this  form — of  whose  intentions,  whether  it  was 
real  or  fantastic,  he  did  not  augur  well — he  met  the 
soft  and  rounded  outlines  of  a  woman. 

"The  deuce  take  you,  my  good  woman!"  said  he  in  a 
low  tone:  "if  you  had  met  anyone  but  me,  you  would 
have  been  likely  to  get  a  bullet  through  your  head! 
But  \vhence  do  you  come,  and  whither  are  you  going  at 
such  an  hour  as  this?  Are  you  dumb?  It  is  really  a 
woman,  though,"  said  he  to  himself. 


A   DAY   WITHOUT   A   MORROW.  405 

As  silence  was  becoming  dangerous,  the  stranger 
replied,  in  a  tone  which  showed  great  fright,  "Oh!  good 
man,  I  be  coming  back  from  the  vei///e."* 

'Tis  the  marquis'  pretended  mother,"  thought  Coren- 
tin.      "Let  us  see  what  she  is  going  to  do." 

"Well,  then,  go  that  way,  old  woman,"  he  went  on 
aloud,  and  pretending  not  to  recognize  her;  "keep  to  the 
left  if  you  don't  want  to  get  shot." 

He  remained  where  he  was;  but  as  soon  as  he  saw 
Madame  du  Gua  making  her  way  to  the  Papegaut's 
Tower,  he  followed  her  afar  off  with  devilish  cunning. 
During  this  fatal  meeting  the  Chouans  had  very  clev- 
erly taken  up  their  position  on  the  manure  heaps  to 
which  Marche-a-Terre  had  guided  them. 

"Here  is  the  Grande-Garce! "  whispered  Marche-a- 
Terre,  as  he  rose  on  his  feet  against  the  tower,  just  as  a 
bear  might  have  done.  "We  are  here!  "  said  he  to  the 
lady. 

"Good  !  answered  Madame  du  Gua.  "If  you  could  find 
a  ladder  in  that  house  where  the  garden  ends,  six  feet 
below  the  dunghill,  the  Gars  would  be  saved.  Do  you 
see  that  round  window  up  there?  It  opens  on  a  dress- 
ing-room adjoining  the  bedroom,  and  that  is  where  you 
have  to  go.  The  side  of  the  tower  at  the  bottom  of 
which  you  are,  is  the  only  one  not  watched.  The  horses 
are  ready;  and  if  you  have  made  sure  of  the  passage  of 
the  Nan9on,  we  shall  get  him  out  of  danger  in  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  for  all  his  madness.  But  if  that  strumpet 
wants  to  come  with  him,  poniard  her!  " 

When  Corentin  saw  that  some  of  the  indistinct  shapes 
which  he  had  at  first  taken  for  stones  were  cautiously 


*  There  is,  I  believe,  more  than  one  local  name  for  this  (  =  "evening  party,  half 
for  work  and  half  for  amusement";  in  English  dialects.  But  the  only  one  known  to 
literary  English  is  "wake,"  which  has  too  special  and  lugubrious  a  meaning. — 
Translator' s  S~ote. 


THE    CHOUANS. 

moving,  he  at  once  went  off  to  the  guard  at  the  Porte 
Saint  Leonard,  where  he  found  the  commandant,  asleep, 
but  fully  dressed,  on  a  camp-bed. 

"Let  him  alone!"  said  Beau-Pied  rudely  to  Corentin; 
"he  has  only  just  lain  down  there." 

"The  Chouans  are  here!  "  cried  Corentin  into  Hulot's  ear. 

"It  is  impossible;  but  so  much  the  better!"  cried  the 
commandant,  dead  asleep  as  he  was.  "At  any  rate,  we 
shall  have  some  fighting." 

When  Hulot  arrived  on  the  promenade,  Corentin 
showed  him  in  the  gloom  the  strange  position  occupied 
by  the  Chouans.  "They  must  have  eluded  or  stifled  the 
sentinels  I  placed  between  the  Queen's  Staircase  and  the 
castle,"  cried  the  commandant.  "Oh,  thunder!  what  a 
fog!  But  patience!  I  will  send  fifty  men  under  a  lieu- 
tenant to  the  foot  of  the  rock.  It  is  no  good  attacking 
them  where  they  are,  for  the  brutes  are  so  tough  that  they 
would  let  themselves  drop  to  the  bottom  of  the  preci- 
pice like  stones,  without  breaking  a  limb." 

The  cracked  bell  of  the  belfry  was  sounding  two  when 
the  commandant  came  back  to  the  promenade,  after  taking 
the  strictest  military  precautions  for  getting  hold  of  the 
Chouans  commanded  by  Marche-a-Terre.  By  this  time, 
all  the  guards  having  been  doubled,  Mile,  de  Verneuil's 
house  had  become  the  center  of  a  small  army.  The 
commandant  found  Corentin  plunged  in  contemplation 
of  the  window  which  shone  above  the  Papegaut's  Tower. 

"Citizen,"  said  Hulot  to  him,  "I  think  the  ci-devant  is 
making  fools  of  us,  for  nothing  has  stirred." 

"He  is  there!  "  cried  Corentin,  pointing  to  the  window. 
"I  saw  the  shadow  of  a  man  on  the  blind.  But  I  cannot 
understand  what  has  become  of  my  little  boy.  They 
must  have  killed  him,  or  gained  him  over.  Why,  com- 
mandant, there  is  a  man  for  you!  Let  us  advance!  " 


A    DAY    WITHOUT   A    MORROW.  407 

"God's  thunder!"  cried  Hulot,  who  had  his  own  rea- 
sons for  waiting;  "I  am  not  going  to  arrest  him  in  bed! 
If  he  has  gone  in  he  must  come  out,  and  Gudin  will  not 
miss  him. " 

"Commandant,  I  order  you  in  the  name  of  the  law  to 
advance  instantly  upon  this  house!  " 

"You  are  a  pretty  fellow  to  think  you  can  set  me  going  ! " 

But  Corentin,  without  disturbing  himself  at  the  com- 
mandant's wrath,  said  coolly,  "You  will  please  to  obey 
me.  Here  is  an  order  in  regular  form,  signed  by  the  Min- 
ister of  War,  which  will  oblige  you  to  do  so, "  he  continued, 
drawing  a  paper  from  his  pocket.  "Do  you  fancy  us 
fools  enough  to  let  that  girl  do  as  she  pleases?  'Tis  a 
civil  war  that  we  are  stifling,  and  the  greatness  of  the 
result  excuses  the  meanness  of  the  means." 

"I  take  the  liberty,  citizen,  of  bidding  you  go  and — 
you  understand  me?  Enough!  Put  your  left  foot  fore- 
most, leave  me  alone — and  do  it  in  less  -than  no  time!  " 

"But  read,"  said  Corentin. 

"Don't  bother  me  with  your  commissions!"  cried 
Hulot,  in  a  rage  at  receiving  orders  from  ,a  creature 
whom  he  held  so  despicable.  But  at  the  same  moment 
Galope-Chopine's  son  appeared  in  their  midst,  like  a  rat 
coming  out  of  the  ground. 

"The  Gars  is  on  his  way!  "  he  cried. 

"Which  way?" 

"By  Saint  Leonard's  Street." 

"Beau-Pied,"  whispered  Hulot  in  the  ear  of  the  cor- 
poral who  was  near  him,  "run  and  tell  the  lieutenant  to 
advance  on  the  house,  and  keep  up  some  nice  little  file- 
firing!  You  understand?  File  to  the  left,  and  march  on 
the  tower,  you  there!"  he  cried  aloud. 

In  order  perfectly  to  comprehend   the  catastrophe,  it  is 


408  THE    CHOUANS. 

necessary  now  to  return  with  Mile,  de  Verneuil  to  her 
house.  When  passion  comes  to  a  crisis,  it  produces  in 
us  an  intensity  of  intoxication  far  above  the  trivial 
stimulus  of  opium  or  of  wine.  The  lucidity  which  ideas 
then  acquire,  the  delicacy  of  the  over-excited  senses, 
produce  the  strangest  and  the  most  unexpected  effects. 
When  they  find  themselves  under  the  tyranny  of  a  single 
thought,  certain  persons  clearly  perceive  things  the  most 
difficult  of  perception,  while  the  most  palpable  objects 
are  for  them  as  though  they  did  not  exist.  Mile,  de  Ver- 
neuil was  suffering  from  this  kind  of  intoxication,  which 
turns  real  life  into  something  resembling  the  existence 
of  sleep-walkers,  when,  after  reading  the  marquis'  letter, 
she  eagerly  made  all  arrangements  to  prevent  his  escap- 
ing her  vengeance,  just  as,  but  the  moment  before,  she 
had  made  every  preparation  for  the  first  festival  of  her 
love.  But  when  she  saw  her  house  carefully  surrounded, 
by  her  own  orders,  with  a  triple  row  of  bayonets,  her 
soul  was  suddenly  enlightened.  She  sat  in  judgment  on 
her  own  conduct,  and  decided,  with  a  kind  of  horror,  that 
what  she  had  just  committed  was  a  crime.  In  her  first 
moment  of  distress  she  sprang  towards  the  door-step,  and 
stood  there  motionless  for  an  instant,  endeavoring  to 
reflect,  but  unable  to  bring  any  reasoning  process  to  a 
conclusion.  She  was  so  absolutely  uncertain  what  she  had 
just  done,  that  she  asked  herself  why  she  was  standing 
in  the  vestibule  of  her  own  house,  holding  a  strange 
child  by  the  hand.  Before  her  eyes  thousands  of  sparks 
danced  in  the  air  like  tongues  of  fire.  She  began  to 
walk  in  order  to  shake  off  the  hideous  stupor  which  had 
enveloped  her,  but  like  a  person  asleep,  she  could  not 
realize  the  true  form  or  color  of  any  object.  She 
clutched  the  little  boy's  hand  with  a  violence  foreign  to 
her  usual  nature,  and  drew  him  along  with  so  rapid  a 


A  DAY  WITHOUT  A   MORROW.  409 

step  that  she  seemed  to  possess  the  agility  of  a  mad 
woman.  She  saw  nothing  at  all  in  the  drawing-room, 
as  she  crossed  it,  and  yet  she  received  there  the  salutes 
of  three  men,  who  drew  aside  to  make  way  for  her. 

"Here  she  is!  "  said  one. 

"She  is  very  beautiful!"  cried  the  priest. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  first  speaker;  "but  how  pale  and 
agitated  she  is!  " 

"And  how  absent!  "  said  the  third.  "She  does  not  see 
us." 

At  her  own  chamber  door  Mile,  de  Verneuil  perceived 
the  sweet  and  joyful  face  of  Francine,  who  whispered  in 
her  ear,  "He  is  there,  Marie!" 

Mile,  de  Verneuil  roused  herself,  was  able  to  collect 
her  thoughts,  looked  at  the  child  whose  hand  she  held, 
and  answered  Francine:  "Lock  this  little  boy  up  some- 
where, and  if  you  wish  me  to  live,  take  good  care  not  to 
let  him  escape." 

As  she  slowly  uttered  these  words  she  had  been  fixing 
her  eyes  on  the  chamber  door,  on  which  they  remained 
glued  with  so  terrible  a  stillness  that  a  man  might  have 
thought  she  saw  her  victim  through  the  thickness  of  the 
panels.  She  gently  pushed  the  door  open,  and  shut  it 
without  turning  her  back,  for  she  perceived  the  marquis 
standing  in  front  of  the  fire-place.  The  young  noble's 
dress,  without  being  too  elaborate,  had  a  certain  festal 
air  of  ornament,  which  heightened  the  dazzling  effect  that 
lovers  produce  on  women.  As  she  saw  this,  Mile,  de 
Verneuil  recovered  all  her  presence  of  mind.  Her  lips 
— strongly  set  though  half  open — exhibited  the  enamel 
of  her  white  teeth,  and  outlined  an  incomplete  smile, 
the  expression  of  which  was  one  of  terror  rather  than  of 
delight.  She  stepped  slowly  towards  the  young  man, 
and  pointed  with  her  finger  towards  the  clock. 


410  THE    CHOUANS. 

"A  man  who  is  worth  loving  is  worth  the  trouble  of 
waiting  for  him,"  said  she  with  feigned  gayety. 

And  then,  overcome  by  the  violence  of  her  feelings, 
she  sank  upon  the  sofa  which  stood  near  the  fire-place. 

"Dearest  Marie,  you  are  very  attractive  when  you  are 
angry!  "  said  the  marquis,  seating  himself  beside  her, 
taking  a  hand  which  she  abandoned  to  him,  and  begging 
for  a  glance  which  she  would  not  give.  "I  hope,"  he 
went  on  in  a  tender  and  caressing  tone,  "that  Marie  will 
in  a  moment  be  vexed  with  herself  for  having  hidden 
her  face  from  her  fortunate  husband." 

When  she  heard  these  words  she  turned  sharply,  and 
stared  him  straight  in  the  eyes. 

"What  does  this  formidable  look  mean?"  continued 
he,  laughing.  "But  your  hand  is  on  fire,  my  love;  what 
is  the  matter?" 

"Your  love?"  she  answered  in  a  broken  and  stifled  tone. 

"Yes!  "  said  he,  kneeling  before  her  and  seizing  both 
her  hands,  which  he  covered  with  kisses.  "Yes,  my 
love!  I  am  yours  for  life!" 

She  repulsed  him  violently  and  rose;  her  features  were 
convulsed,  she  laughed  with  the  laugh  of  a  maniac,  and 
said:  "You  do  not  mean  a  word  you  say!  O,  man  more 
deceitful  than  the  lowest  of  criminals!"  She  rushed  to 
the  dagger  which  lay  by  a  vase  of  flowers,  and  flashed  it 
within  an  inch  or  two  of  the  astonished  young  man's 
breast 

"Bah!"  she  said,  throwing  it  down,  "I  have  not  respect 
enough  for  you  to  kill  you.  Your  blood  is  even  too  vile 
to  be  shed  by  soldiers,  and  I  see  no  fit  end  for  you  but 
the  hangman!  " 

The  words  were  uttered  with  difficulty  in  a  low  tone, 
and  she  stamped  as  she  spoke,  like  an  angry  spoiled 
child.  The  marquis  drew  near  her,  trying  to  embrace  her. 


A  DAY  WITHOUT  A   MORROW.  41! 

"Do  not  touch  me!"  she  cried,  starting  back  with  a 
movement  of  horror. 

"She  is  mad!"  said  the  marquis  despairingly  to  him- 
self. 

"Yes!  she  repeated,  "mad!  but  not  mad  enough  yet  to 
be  your  plaything!  What  would  I  not  pardon  to  pas- 
sion? But  to  wish  to  possess  me  without  loving  me,  and 
to  write  as  much  to  that — 

"To  whom  did  I  write?"  asked  he,  with  an  astonish- 
ment which  was  clearly  not  feigned. 

"To  that  virtuous  woman  who  wanted  to  kill  me!" 

Then  the  marquis  turned  pale,  grasped  the  back  of  the 
arm-chair,  on  which  he  leaned  so  fiercely  that  he  broke 
it,  and  cried,  "If  Madame  du  Gua  has  been  guilty  of 
any  foul  trick — " 

Mile,  de  Verneuil  looked  for  the  letter,  found  it  not, 
and  called  Francine.  The  Breton  girl  came. 

"Where  is  the  letter?" 

"Monsieur  Corentin  took  it." 

"Corentin!  Ah,  I  see  it  all  !  He  forged  the  letter  and 
deceived  me,  as  he  does  deceive,  with  the  fiend's  own 
art!  " 

Then,  uttering  a  piercing  shriek,  she  dropped  on  the 
sofa  to  which  she  staggered,  and  torrents  of  tears  poured 
from  her  eyes.  Doubt  and  certainty  were  equally  horri- 
ble. The  marquis  flung  himself  at  his  mistress'  feet, 
and  pressed  her  to  his  heart,  repeating  a  dozen  times 
these  words,  the  only  ones  he  could  utter: 

"Why  weep,  my  angel?  Where  is  the  harm?  Even 
your  reproaches  are  full  of  love!  Do  not  weep!  I  love 
you!  I  love  you  forever!" 

Suddenly  he  felt  her  embrace  him  with  more  than 
human  strength,  and  heard  her,  amidst  her  sobs,  say,  "You 
love  me  still?" 


THE    CHOUANS. 

"You  doubt  it?"  he  answered,  in  a  tone  almost  melan- 
choly. 

She  disengaged  herself  sharply  from  his  arms,  and 
fled,  as  if  frightened  and  confused,  a  pace  or  two  from 
him.  "Do  I  doubt  it?"  she  cried. 

But  she  saw  the  marquis  smile  with  such  sweet  sar- 
casm that  the  words  died  on  her  lips.  She  allowed  him 
to  take  her  hand  and  lead  her  to  the  threshold.  Then 
Marie  saw  at  the  end  of  the  saloon  an  altar,  which  had 
been  hurriedly  arranged  during  her  absence.  The  priest 
had  at  that  moment  arrayed  himself  in  his  sacerdotal 
vestments;  lighted  tapers  cast  on  the  ceiling  a  glow  as 
sweet  as  hope;  and  she  recognized  in  the  two  men  who 
had  bowed  to  her  the  Count  de  Bauvan  and  the  Baron  du 
Guenic,  the  two  witnesses  chosen  by  Montauran. 

"Will  you  again  refuse  me?"  whispered  the  marquis 
to  her. 

At  this  spectacle  she  made  one  step  back  so  as  to 
regain  her  chamber,  fell  on  her  knees,  stretched  her 
hands  towards  the  marquis,  and  cried:  "Oh,  forgive  me! 
forgive  !  forgive! " 

Her  voice  sank,  her  head  fell  back,  her  eyes  closed, 
and  she  remained  as  if  lifeless  in  the  arms  of  the  mar- 
quis and  of  Francine.  When  she  opened  her  eyes  again 
she  met  those  of  the  young  chief,  full  of  loving  kind- 
ness. 

"Patience,  Marie!      This  storm  is  the  last,"  said  he. 

"The  last!"  she  repeated. 

Francine  and  the  marquis  looked  at  each  other  in 
astonishment,  but  she  bade  them  be  silent  by  a  gesture. 

"Call  the  priest,"  she  said,  "and  leave  rne  alone  with 
him. " 

They  withdrew. 

"Father:  "    she    said    to    the    priest,    who  suddenly  ap- 


A   DAY  WITHOUT  A  MORROW.  413 

peared  before  her.  "Father!  in  my  childhood  an  old 
man,  white-haired  like  yourself,  frequently  repeated  to 
me  that,  with  a  lively  faith,  man  can  obtain  everything 
from  God.  Is  this  true?" 

"It  is  true,"  answered  the  priest.  "Everything  is  pos- 
sible to  Him  who  has  created  everything." 

Mile,    de    Verneuil    threw    herself    on    her  knees  with 


wonderful  enthusiasm.  "Oh,  my  God!  "  said  she  in  her 
ecstasy,  "my  faith  in  Thee  is  equal  to  my  love  for  him! 
Inspire  me  now:  let  a  miracle  be  done,  or  take  my  life!  " 

"Your  prayer  will  be  heard,"  said  the  priest. 

Then  Mile,  de  Verneuil  presented  herself  to  the  gaze 
of  the  company,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  the  aged,  white- 
haired  ecclesiastic.  Now,  when  her  deep  and  secret 
emotion  gave  her  to  her  lover's  love,  she  was  more  radi- 


414  •  'I-HE    CHOUANS- 

antly  beautiful  than  she  had  ever  been  before,  for  a 
serenity  resembling  that  which  painters  delight  in 
imparting  to  martyrs  stamped  on  her  face  a  character  of 
majesty.  She  held  out  her  hand  to  the  marquis,  and 
they  advanced  together  to  the  altar,  at  which  they  knelt 
down.  This  marriage,  which  was  about  to  be  celebrated 
but  a  few  steps  from  the  nuptial  couch,  the  hastily- 
erected  altar,  the  cross,  the  vases,  the  chalice  brought 
secretly  by  the  priest,  the  incense  smoke  eddying  round 
cornices  which  had  as  yet  seen  nothing  but  the  steam  of 
banquets,  the  priest  vested  only  in  cassock  and  stole, 
the  sacred  tapers  in  a  profane  saloon,  composed  a  strange 
and  touching  scene  which  may  give  a  final  touch  to  our 
sketch  of  those  times  of  unhappy  memory,  when  civil 
discord  had  overthrown  the  most  holy  institutions.  Then 
religious  ceremonies  had  all  the  attraction  of  mysteries. 
Children  were  baptized  in  the  chambers  where  their 
mothers  still  groaned.  As  of  old,  the  Lord  came  in 
simplicity  and  poverty  to  console  the  dying.  Nay,  young 
girls  received  the  Holy  Bread  for  the  first  time  in  the 
very  place  where  they  had  played  the  night  before.  The 
union  of  the  marquis  and  Mile,  de  Verneuil  was  about 
to  be  hallowed,  like  many  others,  by  an  act  contraven- 
ing the  new  legislation;  but  later,  these  marriages,  cele- 
brated for  the  most  part  at  the  foot  of  the  oak  trees,  were 
all  scrupulously  legalized.  The  priest  who  thus  kept 
up  the  old  usages  to  the  last  moment  was  one  of  those 
men  who  are  faithful  to  their  principles  through  the 
fiercest  of  the  storm.  His  voice,  guiltless  of  the  oath 
which  the  Republic  had  exacted,  uttered  amidst  the 
tempest  only  words  of  peace.  He  did  not,  as  Abbe 
Gudin  had  done,  stir  the  fire  of  discord.  But  he  had, 
with  many  others,  devoted  himself  to  the  dangerous  mis- 
sio.n  of  performing  the  rites  of  the  priesthood  for  the 


A    DAY   WITHOUT  A   MORROW.  415 

Catholic  remnant  of  souls.  In  order  to  succeed  in  this 
perilous  ministry,  he  employed  all  the  pious  artifices 
which  persecution  necessitates;  and  the  marquis  had 
only  succeeded  in  discovering  him  in  one  of  the  lurking- 
places  which  even  in  our  days  bear  the  name  of  Priests' 
Holes.  The  mere  sight  of  his  pale  and  suffering  face 
ha'd  such  power  in  inspiring  devotion  and  respect,  that 
it  was  enough  to  give  to  the  worldly  drawing-room  the 
air  of  a  holy  place.  All  was  ready  for  the  act  of  mis- 
fortune and  of  joy.  Before  beginning  the  ceremony,  the 
priest,  amid  profound  silence,  asked  the  name  of  the 
bride. 

"Marie  Nathalie,  daughter  of  Mademoiselle  Blanche 
de  Casteran,  deceased,  sometime  abbess  of  our  Lady  of 
Seez,  and  of  Victor  Amadeus,  Duke  of  Verneuil." 

"Born?" 

"At  La  Chasterie,  near  Alen9on. " 

"I  did  not  think,"  whispered  the  baron  to  the  count, 
"that  Montauran  would  be  silly  enough  to  marry  her. 
A  duke's  natural  daughter!  Fie!  fie!" 

"Had  she  been  a  king's,  it  were  a  different  thing," 
answered  the  Count  de  Bauvan  with  a  smile.  "But  I  am 
not  the  man  to  blame  him.  The  other  pleases  me; 'and 
it  is  with  'Charette's  Filly,'  as  they  call  her,  that  I  shall 
make  my  campaign.  She  is  no  cooing  dove." 

The  marquis'  name  had  been  filled  in  beforehand;  the 
two  lovers  signed,  and  the  witnesses  after  them.  The 
ceremony  began,  and  at  the  same  moment  Marie,  and  she 
alone,  heard  the  rattle  of  the  guns  and  the  heavy, 
measured  tramp  of  the  soldiers,  who,  no  doubt,  were 
coming  to  relieve  the  guard  of  Blues  that  she  had  had 
posted  in  the  church.  •  She  shuddered,  and  raised  her  eyes 
to  the  cross  on  the  altar. 

"She  is  a  saint   at  last!  "   murmured   Francine. 


\1 

416  THE    CHOUANS. 

And  the  count  added,  under  his  breath,  'Give  me 
saints  like  that,  and  I  will  be  deucedly  devout!" 

When  the  priest  put  the  formal  question  to  Mile,  de 
Verneuil,  she  answered  with  a  "Yes!  "  followed  by  a  deep 
sigh.  Then  she  leaned  towards  her  husband's  ear,  and 
said  to  him: 

"Before  long  you  will  know  why  I  am  false  to  the 
oath  I  took  never  to  marry  you." 

When,  after  the  ceremony,  the  company  had  passed  into 
a  room  where  dinner  had  been  served,  and  at  the  very 
moment  when  the  guests  were  taking  their  places,  Jeremy 
entered  in  a  state  of  alarm.  The  poor  bride  rose  quickly, 
went,  followed  by  Francine,  to  meet  him,  and  with 
one  of  the  excuses  which  women  know  so  well  how  to 
invent,  begged  the  marquis  to  do  the  honors  of  the  feast 
by  himself  for  a  short  time.  Then  she  drew  the  servant 
aside  before  he  could  commit  an  indiscretion,  which 
would  have  been  fatal. 

"Ah!  Francine.  To  feel  one's  self  dying  and  not  to  be 
able  to  say  'I  die!'"  cried  Mile,  de  Verneuil,  who  did 
not  return  to  the  dining-room. 

Her  absence  was  capable  of  being  interpreted  on  the 
score  of  the  just-concluded  rite.  At  the  end  of  the 
meal,  and  just  as  the  marquis'  anxiety  had  reached  its 
height,  Marie  came  back  in  the  full  gala  costume  of  a 
bride.  Her  face  was  joyous  and  serene,  while  Francine, 
who  was  with  her,  showed  such  profound  alarm  in  all 
her  features  that  the  guests  thought  they  saw  in  the  two 
countenances  some  eccentric  picture  where  the  wild 
pencil  of  Salvator  Rosa  had  represented  Death  and  Life 
hand  in  hand. 

'Gentlemen,"  said  she  to  the  priest,  the  baron,  and 
the  count,  "you  must  be  my  guests  this  night;  for 
\ou  would  run  too  much  risk  in  trying  to  leave  Fou- 


A   DAY   WITHOUT   A   MORROW.  417 

geres.  My  good  maid  has  her  orders,  and  will  guide 
each  of  you  to  his  apartment.  No  mutiny!  "  said  she 
to  the  priest,  who  was  about  to  speak.  "I  hope  you  will 
not  disobey  a  lady's  orders  on  the  day  of  her  marriage." 
An  hour  later  she  found  herself  alone  with  her  lover  in 
the  voluptuous  chamber  which  she  had  arranged  so  grace- 
fully. They  had  come  at  last  to  that  fateful  couch  where 
so  many  hopes  are  shattered  as  though  at  a  tomb,  where 
the  chance  of  waking  to  a  happy  life  is  so  doubtful, 
where  true  love  dies  or  is  born,  according  to  the  strength 
of  the  character,  which  is  only  there  truly  tested. 
Marie  looked  at  the  clock,  and  said  to  herself,  "Six 
hours  more  to  live!  " 

"What!  I  have  been  able  to  sleep!  "  she  cried  towards 
morning,  as  she  awoke  with  a  start  in  one  of  those  sud- 
den movements  which  disturb  us  when  we  have  arranged 
with  ourselves  to  wake  next  day  at  a  certain  time.  "Yes  ! 
I  have  slept,"  she  repeated,  seeing  by  the  glimmer  of 
the  candles  that  the  clock  hand  would  soon  point  to  the 
hour  of  two  in  the  morning. 

She  turned  and  gazed  at  the  marquis,  who  was  asleep, 
his  head  resting  on  one  hand,  as  children  sleep,  while  with 
the  other  hand  he  clasped  his  wife's,  a  half  smile  on  his 
face  as  though  he  had  slumbered  in  the  midst  of  a  kiss. 

"Ah!"  she  whispered,  "he  sleeps  like  a  child!  But 
how  could  he  mistrust  me — me,  who  owe  him  ineffable 
happiness?" 

She  touched  him  gently;  he  woke  and  finished  the 
smile.  Then  he  kissed  the  hand  he  held,  and  gazed  at 
the  unhappy  woman  with  such  fire  in  his  eyes,  that, 
unable  to  bear  their  passionate  blaze,  she  slowly  dropped 
her  ample  eyelids,  as  if  to  forbid  herself  a  dangerous 
spectacle.  But  as  she  thus  veiled  the  ardor  of  her  own 
2? 


418  THE    CHOUANS. 

glances,  she  so  provoked  desire  in  the  act  of  seeming  to 
thwart  it,  that  but  for  the  depth  of  the  fear  which  she 
tried  to  hide,  her  husband  might  have  accused  her  of 
excess  of  coquetry.  Both  at  the  same  time  raised  their 
gracious  heads,  and  still  full  of  the  pleasures  they  had 
enjoyed,  exchanged  signs  of  gratitude.  But  the  marquis, 
after  rapidly  examining  the  exquisite  picture  which  his 
wife's  face  presented,  attributing  to  some  melancholy 
thought  the  cloud  which  shadowed  Marie's  brows,  said 
gently  to  her: 

"Why  this  shadow  of  sadness,  love?" 

"Poor  Alphonse!  Whither  do  you  think  I  have 
brought  you?"  asked  she,  trembling. 

"To  happiness — 

"To  death  !" 

And  with  a  shudder  of  horror  she  sprang  out  of  bed. 
The  astonished  marquis  followed  her,  and  his  wife  drew 
him  close  to  the  window,  after  making  a  frantic  gesture, 
which  escaped  him.  Marie  drew  the  curtain,  and 
pointed  out  to  him  with  her  finger  a  score  of  soldiers 
on  the  square.  The  moon,  which  had  chased  away  the 
fog,  cast  its  white  light  on  the  uniforms,  the  guns,  the 
impassive  figure  of  Corentin,  who  paced  to  and  fro  like 
a  jackal  waiting  for  his  prey,  and  the  commandant,  who 
stood  motionless,  his  arms  crossed,  his  face  lifted,  his 
lips  drawn  back,  ill  at  ease,  and  on  the  watch. 

"Well,  Marie!    never  mind  them,  but  come  back!  " 

"Why  do  you  smile,  Alphonse?  'Twas  /  who  placed 
them  there  !" 

"You  are  dreaming!  " 

"No!  " 

They  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment:  the  marquis 
guessed  all,  and,  clasping  her  in  his  arms,  said: 

"There!    1  love  you  still!" 


A    DAY  WITHOUT  A   MORROW. 


419 


"Then,  all  is  not  lost!"  cried  Marie.  "Alphonse, "  she 
said,  after  a  pause,  "there  is  still  hope!  " 

At  this  moment  they  distinctly  heard  the  low  owl's 
hoot,  and  Francine  came  suddenly  out  of  the  dressing- 


•u..., n. 


room.  "Pierre  is  there!  "  she  cried,  with  a  joy  bordering 
on  delirium.  Then  she  and  the  marchioness  dressed 
Montauran  in  a  Chouan's  garb  with  the  wonderful  rapid- 
ity which  belongs  only  to  women.  When  the  mar- 


42O  THE    CHOUANS. 

chioness  saw  her  husband  busy  loading  the  weapons 
which  Francine  had  brought,  she  slipped  out  deftly,  after 
^making  a  sign  of  intelligence  to  her  faithful  Breton 
maid.  Then  Francine  led  the  marquis  to  the  dressing- 
room  which  adjoined  the  chamber;  and  the  young  chief, 
seeing  a  number  of  sheets  strongly  knotted  together, 
could  appreciate  the  careful  activity  with  which  the  girl 
had  worked  to  outwit  the  vigilance  of  the  soldiers. 

"I  can  never  get  through  there,"  said  the  marquis, 
scanning  the  narrow  embrasure  of  the  ceil-de-bceuf. 

But  at  the  same  moment  a  huge,  dark  face  filled  its 
oval,  and  a  hoarse  voice,  well  known  to  Francine,  cried 
in  a  low  tone: 

"Be  quick,  general !     These  toads  of  Blues  are  stirring. " 

"Oh!    one  kiss  more!  "  said  a  sweet,  quivering  voice. 

The  marquis,  whose  foot  was  already  on  the  ladder  of 
deliverance,  but  a  part  of  whose  body  was  still  in  the 
loop-hole,  felt  himself  embraced  despairingly.  He 
uttered  a  cry  as  he  perceived  that  his  wife  had  put  on 
his  own  garments.  He  would  have  held  her,  but  she  tore 
herself  fiercely  from  his  arms,  and  he  found  himself 
obliged  to  descend.  He  held  a  rag  of  stuff  in  his  hand, 
and  a  sudden  gleam  of  moonlight  coming  to  give  him 
light,  he  saw  that  the  fragment  was  part  of  the  waistcoat 
he  had  worn  the  night  before. 

"Halt!      Fire  by  platoons!" 

These  words,  uttered  by  Hulot  in  the  midst  of  a  silence 
which  was  terrifying,  broke  the  spell  that  seemed  to 
reign  over  the  actors  and  the  scene.  A  salvo  of  bullets 
coming  from  the  depths  of  the  valley  to  the  foot  of  the 
tower  succeeded  the  volleys  of  the  Blues  stationed  on 
the  promenade.  The  Republican  fire  was  steady,  con- 
tinuous, unpitying;  but  its  victims  uttered  not  a  single 
cry,  an  1  between  each  volley  the  silence  was  terrible. 


A   DAY  WITHOUT   A   MORROW.  431 

Still,  Corentin,  who  had  heard  one  of  the  aerial  forms 
which  he  had  pointed  out  to  the  commandant  falling 
from  the  upper  part  of  the  ladder,  suspected  some  trick. 
"Not  one  of  our  birds  sings,"  said  he  to  Hulot.  "Our 
two  lovers  are  quite  capable  of  playing  some  trick  to 
amuse  us  here,  while  they  are  perhaps  escaping  by  the 
other  side. " 

And  the  spy,  eager  to  clear  up  the  puzzle,  sent  Galope- 
Chopine's  son  to  fetch  torches. 

Corentin' s  suggestion  was  so  well  understood  by  Hulot 

that   the    old    soldier,    attentive   to    the  noise  of  serious 

fighting  in  front  of  the  guard  at   Saint  Leonard's,  cried, 

' 'Tis  true;     there    cannot    be    two    of    them."     And  he 

rushed  towards  the  guard-house. 

"We  have  washed  his  head  with  lead,  commandant," 
said  Beau-Pied,  coming  to  meet  him.  "But  he  has 
killed  Gudin  and  wounded  two  men.  The  madman  broke 
through  three  lines  of  our  fellows,  and  would  have 
gained  the  fields  but  for  the  sentinel  at  the  Porte  Saint 
Leonard,  who  skewered  him  with  his  bayonet." 

When  he  heard  these  words,  the  commandant  hurried 
into  the  guard-house,  and  saw  on  the  camp-bed  a  bleed- 
ing form  which  had  just  been  placed  there.  He  drew 
near  the  seeming  marquis,  raised  the  hat  which  covered 
his  face,  and  dropped  upon  a  chair. 

"I  thought  so!"  he  cried  fiercely,  folding  his  arms. 
"Holy  thunder!  she  had  kept  him  too  long!  " 

None  of  the  soldiers  stirred.  The  commandant's 
action  had  displaced  the  long  black  hair  of  a  woman, 
which  fell  down.  Then  suddenly  the  silence  was  broken 
by  the  tramp  of  many  armed  men.  Corentin  entered  the 
guard-house  in  front  of  four  soldiers  carrying  Montauran, 
both  whose  legs  and  both  whose  arms  had  been  broken 
by  many  gunshots,  on  a  bier  formed  by  their  guns.  The 


422  THE    CHOUANS. 

marquis  was  laid  on  the  camp-bed  by  the  side  of  his  wife, 
saw  her,  and  summoned  up  strength  enough  to  clutch  her 
hand  convulsively.  The  dying  girl  painfully  turned  her 
head,  recognized  her  husband,  shuddered  with  a  spasm 
horrible  to  see,  and  murmured  these  words  in  an  almost 
stifled  voice: 

"A  Day  without  a  Morrow!  God  has  heard  my  prayer 
too  well !" 

"Commandant,"  said  the  marquis,  gathering  all  his 
strength,  but  never  quitting  Marie's  hand,  "I  count  on 
your  honor  to  announce  my  death  to  my  younger  brother, 
who  is  at  London.  Write  to  him  not  to  bear  arms 
against  France,  if  he  would  obey  my  last  words,  but 
never  to  abandon  the  King's  service." 

"It  shall  be  done!"  said  Hulot,  pressing  the  dying 
man's  hand. 

"Take  them  to  the  hospital  there!"  cried  Corentin. 

Hulot  seized  the  spy  by  his  arm  so  as  to  leave  the 
mark  of  the  nails  in  his  flesh,  and  said,  "As  your  task 
is  done  here,  get  out !  and  take  a  good  look  at  the  face  of 
Commandant  Hulot,  so  as  to  keep  out  of  his  way,  unless 
you  want  him  to  sheathe  his  toasting-iron  in  your  belly." 
And  the  old  soldier  half  drew  it  as  he  spoke. 

"There  is  another  of  your  honest  folk  who  will  never 
make  their  fortune!"  said  Corentin  to  himself  when  he 
was  well  away  from  the  guard-house. 

The  marquis  had  still  strength  to  thank  his  foe  by 
moving  his  head,  as  a  mark  of  the  esteem  which  soldiers 
have  for  generous  enemies. 

In  1827  an  old  man,  accompanied  by  his  wife,  was 
bargaining  for  cattle  on  the  market-place  of  Fougeres, 
without  anybody  saying  anything  to  him,  though  he  had 
killed  more  than  a  hundred  men.  They  did  not  even 


A    DAY    WITHOUT   A    MORROW.  433 

remind  him  of  his  surname  of  Marche-a-Terre.  The  per- 
son to  whom  the  writer  owes  much  precious  information 
as  to  the  characters  of  this  story  saw  him  leading  off  a 
cow  with  that  air  of  simplicity  and  probity,  as  he  went, 
which  makes  men  say,  "That's  an  honest  fellow!  " 

As  for  Cibot,  called  Pille-Miche,  his  end  is  already 
known.  It  may  be  that  Marche-a-Terre  made  a  vain 
attempt  to  save  his  comrade  from  the  scaffold,  and  was 
present  on  the  square  of  Alencon  at  the  terrible  riot 
\\hich  was  one  of  the  incidents  of  the  famous  trial  of 
Rifoel,  Briond,  and  La  Chanterie. 


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